Days Like These
by Elemnestra Aethelflaeda
Summary: When the Daedalus arrives at Atlantis on its regular supply run it brings with it, along with the essential resupply of soldiers, chocolate, ammunition and coffee, a few newcomers whom Colonel Samantha Carter is not expecting. Neither is anyone else. WIP
1. Part 1

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises._**

**A/N: In my head, this is set in the same 'verse as _Acid Shadows _(and for that matter, _A Second (-Hand) Life _as well ) but neither are required reading. Neither are referred to, anyway. **

**The title comes from that John Lennon song, wherein the whole line is something like "Nobody told me there'd be days like these/strange days indeed". Um. Yeah.**

**Also, if anyone could reassure me that I haven't actually stolen the OC's name from somewhere, that would be helpful. Or, you know, tell me if I _have_ stolen it. But either way, please do review and tell me if you liked this, cos I'm not quite sure if it works.****  
**

* * *

**_Days Like These_**

When the _Daedalus_ arrives at Atlantis on its regular supply run, it brings with it, along with the essential resupply of soldiers, chocolate, ammunition and coffee, a few newcomers whom Colonel Samantha Carter is definitely not expecting. Neither is anyone else.

Overseeing the goings-on that have by now easily become all but second nature, Carter doesn't see the approaching young man until he is only metres away. And she knows him; or at least, she knows that she knows him from somewhere. It isn't until he is standing in front of her, duffel over his shoulder, hands in pockets and slouching, that she remembers from just where it was that she knows him.

She should have known that dealing with Pegasus was too easy. And clearly it had been, because someone had thought to add to her difficulties. Lucky her.

Carter really does not want to know just who had decided that the physically-decades-younger clone of Jack O'Neill should be sent to Atlantis because if that knowledge ever happens to come into her possession, she will then very likely become possessed of an overwhelming urge to go and cause serious physical harm to that person. And that would probably not be a particularly good move. Therefore she should really attempt to try and restrain any such urges. No matter what the cause of such urges. Really.

But, whatever her personal thoughts on the matter, the problem – perhaps she's being a touch uncharitable, but really, she _knows_ O'Neill – is standing right there in front of her. No getting out of it, clearly, so the least she can do is discover _why _the fates have decided to unleash this, of all things, upon her. And okay, so maybe she's being melodramatic, but the situation calls for it, and she doesn't get many chances to practise the art of melodrama, even within her head, so there.

'Hey, Carter,' the problem says, looking far too relaxed (and her reasoning there is, she admits, at least in part due to the fact that she is now his superior, and some subtle revenge is possibly due). Not giving her a chance to reply, Carter's newest twist to her life continues 'Good job with the promotion, it shoulda happened ages back. Not a half bad command, either,' he adds, grinning widely.

Carter somehow feels she's being mocked (except, of course, she knows him – or at least the original him – to know that he's being serious, even if the only way he can do that is through sarcasm). The duffel has migrated from his shoulder to his feet, so it seems he expects to be talking to her for a while.

'Thank you,' Carter says, managing to get a word in. 'And,' she continues, well aware of watching eyes 'is there a reason I wasn't told you were going to be turning up?'

She almost adds "like a bad penny", but isn't quite that ill-mannered. She can, however, with sudden precognition, see her grasp on her manners steadily diminishing in the near future.

The – it's not a problem, it's a _challenge_ – shrugs carelessly. 'Dunno. Oh!' he says suddenly, breaking off, hand plunging into his pocket to pull out some sort of technological device. 'Here, catch,' and he throws it at her, trusting her to catch it with such little prior warning as that (and she does, of course), not seeming to care if it becomes damaged by his rough handling of it. 'You get to be my newest parole officer.'

And then he has the gall to grin at the startlement she knows she is hiding well enough that of all those on Atlantis only he, who has known her for so long (even if it doesn't look like they have known each other all that long, and even if she occasionally still has to wrestle the evidence of her senses into submission to admit the evidence that her mind knows) can see it. And why do these things always get sprung on her like this? And why is it so often he – either of them – that is doing the springing?

And even if she hasn't seen the elder O'Neill for some time, now (too long away from home/family/SG-1), and has barely seen this O'Neill since his (she shies away from thinking "creation") first unexpected appearance in all of their lives, she is still completely justified in blaming them both for everything. She is quite often right, and even if she's not, neither of them will ever need to know. And even if _this_ O'Neill has changed since she last saw him (and that was hardly for any length of time, a fact she consistently refuses to feel guilty about), she will soon (she determines) find out how he has changed.

Because even if Carter's only seen him for a few seconds today, she _has_ heard some of the (strictly classified, no names named) stories that have quietly drifted from the Pentagon; that this O'Neill has changed from when she met him all those years ago isn't much up for debate (but she doesn't think it's so much that he is different from the General, as that circumstances are different and his personality evolved to match). Carter drags her mind away from such thoughts; there will be time for examination of O'Neill's personality later, if he's staying for as long as she thinks he will be (for her sins, although in this case it's probably more due to _his_ sins).

But, really – she's now his _parole_ officer (and, given this news, Carter assumes the technology she now has in her own pocket is some portable way of locating O'Neill's whereabouts)? What exactly has he managed to get himself into this time? Also, she thinks he (or possibly the government) might have stretched the term "parole".

And then, before she has the chance to ask exactly that, a moderately flustered (of _course_ flustered; the madness spreads fast) Captain in the USAF rushes (not _quite _running) up to the impromptu gathering (she may as well name it a gathering, seeing the numbers of people who are openly staring at the commander of the city, and the new, young, arrival whom she seems to know). He is followed rather more sedately by Colonel Caldwell, and starts speaking immediately.

'O'Neill! Would you mind telling where you managed to_ get_ to, exactly, wh– no, never mind, not important. Where did you end up leaving Colonel Caldwell's receiver-thing? Because I know you finally ended up stealing it, so don't even bother of lying.'

O'Neill, for his part, manages to look both astonishingly innocent and remarkably detached from the fluster emanating freely from the harried (Carter has no doubt he is harried with good reason) Captain as he provides a brief, entirely non-explanatory (though entirely typical) explanation.

'Caldwell had it. Now Carter has it. Parole has been transferred, yadda, yadda.'

And that, apparently, is all they are getting. Carter hadn't really expected anything else from the clone (and, indeed, may well have been inexplicably disappointed had any more detailed response been gained).

Caldwell merely frowns repressively at O'Neill, and tells him to, in future, refer to his superiors with the respect they were due. At this statement, Carter feels a (well-hidden, she is sure) flicker of satisfaction (it is part satisfaction, anyway). O'Neill makes a face.

Caldwell doesn't let up with the evil eye, and the as-yet-unnamed captain tries to relax (insofar as it is possible when standing before two colonels) and rid himself of the emotions O'Neill apparently induces in him (Carter wonders who, exactly, had assigned him to chase after O'Neill, and whether the captain had become this anxious before or after meeting O'Neill). The captain (who still hasn't saluted her, but she doesn't particularly mind) is glaring at O'Neill, but that doesn't detract from his immaculate military posture, back stiffly straight and shoulders back.

The conversation seems to be lagging a little (in Carter's professional opinion), given its basically non-existent nature as of the last few seconds, but soon picks up with the arrival of Sheppard (as he pushes through what Carter thinks is becoming really quite a large crowd who are not doing a very good job of appearing as though they are occupied with their – or anyone's – legitimate jobs; she thinks that they should soon learn to do a better job through practice, if nothing else). And hopefully, there haven't been any _more_ problems in the last few minutes that she needs to know about and deal with.

Caldwell mutters something about having to supervise people (although Carter suspects that his near future will more likely contain alcohol celebrating the relief of a burden), and strides off (making a quick getaway, Carter uncharitably muses) before Sheppard reaches them (before the madness of Pegasus can affect him too greatly).

'Colonel Carter?' Sheppard begins as he reaches them. 'The scientists want to know-' he breaks off, and Carter thinks that whatever question it was that he or the scientists currently resident on Atlantis had, it was possibly a pretext. She is at least partly confirmed in her thoughts when the next words out of his mouth are 'Colonel? Who is this?'

At least Sheppard tries to sound as little rude as possible (although, Carter notes, he has kept some minimum of what could easily become hostility in his voice, and therefore he possibly suspects the pair of newcomers to have been installed by such folk as the IOA; but then he kind of has the right to suspect the worst) in his questioning. Carter smiles a little, more in private amusement than anything else, before she answers him.

Gesturing briefly at O'Neill, she begins 'This is,' before she is interrupted.

'Jay,' O'Neill puts in quickly before Carter can finish her sentence (it seems he hasn't gained many manners since she saw him last; and is there a reason for his change in first name and obvious lack to provide a surname?). He goes back to watching the rest of the city's inhabitants (many of whom are watching him in turn, but O'Neill has the advantage because he isn't trying to hide the observation).

Carter suspects that he isn't feeling quite so offhand about the introductions as he is pretending, given the speed with which he jumped into them. It doesn't matter; she'll discover his reasons later.

'Jay,' she confirms to Sheppard, 'and this is-' she says, pauses (a bit of déjà vu, there, from only a few seconds earlier), and then watches the new officer's eyes widen as he evidently realises what it is he's forgotten.

'Captain Greg Dalton, ma'am. I'm his other parole officer,' and now it's his turn to pause, before he adds shamefacedly 'Sorry, ma'am. I'm not normally this bad.'

He offers a wry smile, and then once more glares (albeit a touch half-heartedly this time, Carter notices) at O'Neill (and, while he has been glaring at O'Neill on and off for a while now, once more for good measure can't hurt). Carter correctly interprets Dalton's words to mean something along the lines of "I'm not normally quite this distracted when I meet superior officers for the first time, although these days, all bets are unconditionally off." She also wonders what O'Neill has done to merit not one but two officers supervising his parole.

'Jay, Captain Dalton, this is Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard,' Carter returns, as is only polite.

Carter suspects that these introductions did not quite (meaning, not in the least) supply all of the information that Sheppard was after. At least, that's what she thinks his current facial expression means to convey. It's a reasonable guess.

Carter would quite like to hear a little more detail herself, but she is willing to wait for it (or to appear to be willing to wait, anyway). Of course, she knows she'll get Jay to tell her sooner or later (knowing him, it might well be much later, but explanations will come eventually). Sheppard has no such guarantee (and he is clearly hesitant to accept people who, for all he knows, might in the long run cause his own people harm).

'Pleased to meet you,' Sheppard says.

He has managed to wait the precise length of time necessary to avoid outright rudeness (more because Carter's both, firstly, his superior and secondly, standing right next to him than because he feels any massive need for politeness), but still allow his words to convey the definite sense that no, he is not particularly pleased to meet the pair. Carter is slightly impressed, but she's also been around maverick men with an anti-authoritarian streak long enough to have seen the trick before (and maybe to have even practised it once or twice herself, not that she's admitting to anything).

Captain Dalton manages a neutral 'Sir,' in response to Sheppard.

Jay, entirely undaunted by Sheppard's attitude (if Jay had seemed daunted, Carter admits to herself even as she mentally berates and groans at his behaviour, she would have suspected him of faking it), doesn't even straighten up from his slouch. Really, Carter can kind of see how Sheppard can become annoyed by Jay (she can literally see that he _is_ becoming annoyed; he's hiding it well, but she has known him long enough to tell by now).

'Hey,' Carter's newest problem says to Sheppard, nodding in the man's direction.

Formalities over with, the conversation lags again. No one seems inclined to help Carter out by rebooting it, so she does so herself (if somewhat awkwardly).

'We weren't told you were coming, for some reason, so you'll need to be assigned rooms. Speaking of which, have you decided to tell me yet the reason we weren't told?' Carter asks him (she's decided another try can't hurt).

Predictably, O'Neill doesn't give much of an answer (again). 'Nah,' he says carelessly. 'It's good for your curiosity not to be told, Carter. You probably know too much already anyway.'

Carter is about to reply (although she's not sure if Jay means "too much" in general, or in this specific instance) in their time-honoured method of comfortable rudeness hidden behind polite words, when Sheppard intervenes. The expression hidden in his eyes suggests that he hasn't taken very well to the newcomers (if she hadn't already known Jay, Carter probably wouldn't have either; and Sheppard still doesn't know who Dalton or O'Neill are, or why they are here).

The tone of his voice when he requests that Jay apologise for his words suggests exactly the same. Carter doesn't exactly need protecting like that, but it's nice to see that Sheppard likes _her_ enough to defend her honour (or whatever his reasons).

'My apologies, ma'am,' Jay tells her, and behind him Dalton just refrains from rolling his eyes (Carter has seen the expression enough by now, though not specifically on Dalton, to be able to tell).

Sarcastic though it is, Jay's voice is tinged regardless with just a hint of genuine apology (he's straightened up, too, showing that much respect, though it is at least as much for Sheppard's benefit as it is for Carter's). Carter suspects he can't quite bring himself to apologise for being who he is, or at least for whom he has been forced to become. She doesn't blame him for it, or for the tone of his words (she didn't really think he needed to apologise for his previous words, either).

Sheppard, however, visibly bristles at the perceived insult (or rather, in his view, the continuation of an insult). She is going to have to teach him how to survive around O'Neill, clearly. Carter just isn't sure how long that will take; hopefully not long, because Sheppard isn't stupid even if he sometimes pretends so (and that act never fooled Carter, because she spent a long time around O'Neill, who spent his life pretending to be stupid).

But Sheppard isn't stupid, and he definitely isn't stupid enough to make a big deal out of Jay's non-apology and push the matter; he mightn't like Jay much, but Sheppard can tell that Carter herself isn't bothering about the young man's lack of manners (and she can tell he knows there must be a reason). Sheppard drops some of his annoyance (outwardly, anyway, and there'll always, Carter knows, be some inner annoyance), and with an abrupt nod he drops the issue (maybe he won't need to be taught everything about O'Neill-survival).

'So,' Sheppard says, sounding almost friendly, 'you need to be shown around, right?'

Carter watches the three of them talking with concealed amusement (feeling irrationally proud as they interact without bloodshed). A moment later, Sheppard shanghais a passing Marine and orders him to give Dalton and O'Neill the grand tour of the city. Sheppard, seeing Dalton and Jay peaceably follow their designated guide, takes the opportunity to disappear himself (fabricating an excuse, Carter suspects) into the crowd.

Well, Carter thinks to herself as she watches the pair of new arrivals make their way through the throng of people. Her life is about to become interesting.

She's fairly sure Atlantis will be able to deal with it. And she's _almost_ as sure that the people of Atlantis will be able to cope. She has found them to be, Carter thinks, understating the facts, reasonably resilient.

**[-end-]**


	2. Part 2

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Yes, okay, I've written some more. It just sort of...multiplies against my will. I'll go to add a sentence and then end up by adding a couple of paragraphs. Anyway. This fic doesn't actually have any sort of plot, nor will it have anything anywhere even vaguely in the realm of regular updates. Just as a warning. Plot may one day develop. It merely hasn't yet.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

**_Part Two_**

Carter looks up when the door to her office slides open. She's fairly sure she locked it. But when she sees that it's Jay crossing the threshold (closely followed by Dalton, and Carter is positive she'll become used to not seeing the pair apart; it has probably been written into Dalton's job description, possibly after his acceptance of the assignment), she isn't surprised that the door managed to be opened regardless.

For one thing, she knows for a fact that O'Neill (and she's assuming that he still uses "O'Neill" as his surname; she _doesn't_ know if he cares how many other people know that name, given its significance in matters stargate-related) is perfectly capable of picking a lock. For another, she knows he is probably also entirely capable of convincing Atlantis to open the door for him (although she had, when Jay had appeared, counted on him taking a little longer to sweet-talk the Ancient sentient city).

Dalton closes the door behind them, and really Carter had actually expected them to turn up in her office before this. It has after all been a matter of hours rather than minutes since they had been shown around the city and then subsequently left to their own devices.

It crosses Carter's mind that she will need to, in the near future, decide how to keep Jay (and therefore Dalton) occupied. Keeping them sufficiently occupied to prevent outbreaks of trouble (mentally, Carter flirts with the idea of bestowing that word with an appropriately threatening capital letter, but decides against it; an overdose of melodrama is no doubt bad for her soul) will be difficult (O'Neill attracts it like no one else she knows except for maybe Daniel), but Carter isn't going to let that stop her.

Managing and occasionally subduing O'Neill's propensity to attract trouble has always worked moderately well in the past and it would be foolish to stop now. The fact that O'Neill has, possibly in self-defence whether literal or otherwise, grown adept at damage-control is a small consolation. If Carter gives in, the situation could quickly and easily become far worse, swelling to (near-literal) apocalyptic proportions, it having happened before even despite the combined efforts of SG-1 (melodrama, Carter thinks, seems to have snuck up on her regardless of the utter lack of symptomatic capital letters).

And she is at some point going to want (or possibly, dare she say it, _need_) an explanation. This explanation will hopefully include firstly, just what being Jay's parole officer will entail, and secondly why he needs two of them; Carter will settle for, if she must, a brief outline of the first, a hint at the second, and a preferably-not-cryptic reason for the choice of Atlantis as his place of exile (because it _is_ exile, of a sort; a whole galaxy away from whoever sent him here is far enough, remote enough, to be termed exile).

It is best not to let on the concessions she is willing to make, however (it is at this point that Carter decides that simply ignoring her growing possibly-paranoia is not the best way to make it disappear, but she can, unfortunately for her mental health, do nothing but continue with the tactic). She would prefer not to make those concessions at all, but reflects that some compromise will doubtless be needed (unless, or maybe even if, Dalton proves to be her ally in this process of wrangling explanatory discussion).

By the time Carter realises that she shouldn't be looking for new ways to make her life difficult (even if it promises to be somewhat enjoyable), Jay and Dalton have both sat down opposite her desk. Jay is slouching in his chair, though not outrageously; Dalton has a straight back, but nothing beyond basic good posture. She puts her pen down, because now at least she has a legitimate excuse to escape the dread terrors of paperwork.

'Captain Dalton, Jay,' she greets them (and, yes, she is being calm, she tells herself), and waits for a response; it takes no time at all.

'So, Carter,' Jay starts, and Carter half-braces herself for whatever he's going to say next. As it turns out, it isn't so bad. 'Soul-sucking space vampires?' he asks, grinning, not quite laughing. 'You guys get all the cool jobs.'

And that comment of course makes her wonder what exactly _his_ job is (and possibly he had known when he said it what chains of thought would start up in her mind), and how specifically it is uncool. Unless of course he had been joking (a distinct possibility that Carter isn't about to dismiss, and she thinks that maybe she is becoming a little paranoid) and hadn't meant her to take the statement seriously.

In the end, she simply smiles back at him (and by extension Dalton). 'Of course we do,' she says confidently, suitably blasé about the aforementioned space vampires (because after all, she has a reputation to maintain – she was on _SG-1_).

Carter also manages to bite the instinctive "sir" off the end of her sentence (an impressive feat that really and truly shouldn't be all that impressive). She is, however, hopeful that no one else has noticed that her subconscious had apparently planned to add that extra syllable (and then her mind catches up with her thoughts, and she mentally berates herself for caring if they notice; she doesn't need Dalton's approval).

'You call soul-sucking space vampires cool?' Carter hears Dalton mutter quietly to O'Neill. Dalton waits a beat, and then says, 'Oh, wait. Of course you do.'

Carter's smile becomes a touch wider, listening to Jay (not as quiet as Dalton had been; certainly not so quietly that Carter needs to pretend not to hear) as he replies 'Well, yeah. They're soul-sucking _space_ vampires.'

Carter thinks she can probably guess at possible reasons behind that particular emphasis, but she isn't going to mention any aloud. She isn't that cruel (although she could keep the tactic as a back-up, just in case of future mishap). She does _know_ that O'Neill (for once in complete accordance with popular opinion) despises his flying-a-desk, promoted-to-paperwork status about as much as he still yearns for the stargate and fieldwork (on a related note, Carter has, in the past, thought about submitting a paper on the possible addictive qualities of the stargate, but has refrained; if anything is ever proved, travel may then become restricted and she remains too much of an addict to wish for that).

She doesn't know what the younger O'Neill has been doing, but is almost certain it hasn't involved other worlds (and, Carter believes, he feels the same way about this as does his older counterpart). She isn't going to rub it in (and, Carter tells herself firmly, this lenience certainly isn't because she feels guilty about anything at all, clearly).

'We call them the Wraith,' she says, temporarily at a loss for anything better to say. 'I've found it to be easier to say ten times quickly.'

Dalton, at this pronouncement, eyes her somewhat warily (it's not her fault, Carter thinks; she has been exposed to stargate-crazy people for extended periods, not excluding herself). He likely isn't used to superior officers interacting with O'Neill whilst keeping an even temper (O'Neill always has had the knack of pushing his commanding officers to breaking point and then saving their asses just in time to prevent his imminent throttling at their hands).

Jay grins at her. 'You've needed to do that?'

'Yes,' she tells him bluntly (he can guess for himself, Carter thinks, if she's telling the truth; she also thinks he's cynical enough – or maybe just cursed with enough experience in such matters – to guess it to be truth). Before he or Dalton can say anything in response, Carter continues 'Was there something you needed?' She ignores that her words sound almost rudely abrupt.

'Was there?' Jay asks Dalton innocently (Carter can't help but think he isn't that innocent, and that Dalton had been a split-second away from asking the exact same question of O'Neill).

Dalton looks sceptically at the younger man. 'I don't know, was there? You didn't mention it when you decided to pay Colonel Carter a visit,' Dalton says, glancing briefly at Carter when he mentions her name.

Carter doesn't say anything, but raises an eyebrow at O'Neill when he pretends to look surprised and offended by Dalton's statement (because it clearly is pretence). Never one to back down from a challenge, O'Neill merely raises an eyebrow right back at her. Carter thinks that perhaps their mutual long exposure to Teal'c's eyebrow-raising ways has worn off on them, and she isn't sure if she is entirely amenable to that idea.

But it could after all have been worse, and they have all managed to influence each other (and, Carter realises, she has been thinking of the clone as the original for the past few thoughts; she can't figure out if that's wrong or not, because moral dilemmas regarding cloning aren't her strong point – they had Daniel for that). Some of that influence had been less tangible than a tendency to raise an eyebrow every so often.

Dalton looks mildly uncomfortable, but (thankfully, in Carter's mind) refrains from raising an eyebrow of his own and escalating the situation. He does, however, clear his throat. Carter looks at him, a smile hovering just behind her calm expression, privately somewhat glad for the considerate interruption (she still thinks, whatever O'Neill tells her, that staring competitions are immature and should be restricted to school-children – and restricted to _young_ schoolchildren at that).

Captain Dalton, although Carter isn't sure how long he has been assigned to trail after Jay (and that _would_ be on her list of questions), has by now probably learnt to recognise certain types of situations that O'Neill causes. Specifically, those situations wherein his superiors need an out that doesn't require them to lose face (_not _that Carter is particularly worried about losing face in front of O'Neill; at least not as a result of _this_ style of circumstance, anyway). She is grateful regardless; Dalton could in future become an ally in her ongoing battle against insanity (others under her command are not always very helpful in this regard, she has found, not at all to her surprise).

Jay sighs, though not in irritation, Carter believes. 'Beyond soul-sucking space vampires,' O'Neill begins (and Carter doesn't miss his swiftly-hidden, gleeful grin at those words), 'I haven't actually been told a whole lot about this place.' He shrugs, the casual gesture almost masking his annoyance. 'People have trust issues, obviously. Not sure how they meant to keep stuff from me once I'm _here_, though.'

He rolls his eyes, and slouches a little further down in his seat (the slouch makes him look younger, more the stereotypical teenager, and Carter wonders if Jay's ever deliberately used the effect to mislead; she suspects the answer is "yes"). She stares at him for a second, wondering how much of Jay's statement had been a lie by omission (because he _will_ keep secrets). Carter flicks a glance at Dalton, who gives her a miniscule shrug, barely visible.

'Good question,' she says (and leaves the addendum of "but people can be stupid" unspoken). 'Because now you're here, you're inevitably going to be finding out.'

He raises an eyebrow at her in question (_because you'll be telling me, you mean?_), and she returns the gesture (_yes_). Jay shifts position, sitting up fractionally straighter (and if Carter hadn't known O'Neill so well, she might not have caught that he had relaxed, had lost some tension). He makes a vague grunt that could have meant anything, and had probably meant nothing. Dalton looks between the two of them, and relaxes a little himself (apparently, Carter thinks, he has also come to recognise certain subtleties of O'Neill's body language).

'The real question is,' Carter continues, 'whether you're going to tell me anything.' She manages not to raise an eyebrow at Jay, feeling that _would_ be too much.

He just grins at her, and doesn't say a word. Carter gets the unshakeable feeling that it might take some time to get answers out of him. Of course, she isn't going to be giving up any time soon.

She grins back at Jay. Dalton begins looking the tiniest fraction uncomfortable again, watching this byplay. No matter. Life really has just added a few new challenges, and she isn't begrudging it in the least.

**_end part two_**


	3. Part 3

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Yeah, okay, part three. In which Sheppard kind of succumbs to the melodrama Carter has been trying to avoid, and leaps to conclusions. Um. Hopefully it will be enjoyed.**

**Although, one thing first, as a response to a review (although I do realise the reviewer will not in fact be reading this). I understand that some people may not like the use/abuse/absolutely-gratuitous-and-complete-overuse of parentheses. The fact remains, however, that basically the whole point of this fic was as an experiment into the use of both those, and present tense. So, um, sorry if people don't like them, but while they may over time lessen, they're never going to disappear.**

**And, yes, I had originally written something slightly different and slightly more of a rant in response to that review. But I wrote it elsewhere, and have since calmed down, and the urge to vent is out of my system. So, all good.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Three**_

Sheppard has managed to track down McKay, if not the remainder of his team (but, he thinks, they'll be arriving sooner rather than later; a disturbing number of people in the city appear to have acquired some form of ESP alerting them to new and interesting developments). Sheppard has by this point, at least a half-hour later, also managed to inform McKay of recent happenings. The process had definitely been helped by the fact that McKay had been eating for much of the duration, and his mouth therefore occupied and mostly-unable to interrupt.

In particular, Sheppard had spoken of the arrival of two specific people, neither of whom the citizens of Atlantis have been provided with any information regarding (and Sheppard's personal dislike of the pair clearly hasn't affected his retelling to McKay in the least. Clearly). He feels, justifiably in his opinion (and, as becomes evident, somewhat to Sheppard's private vindication, McKay's opinion also), that this is not the correct way to go about things.

It is also, Sheppard believes, and mentions to the scientist sitting opposite him in the mess hall, an unusual way to go about things. This _is_ a military-run expedition, after all (and on average, the military generally seem quite determined to fill out even the most unnecessary of forms as many times as humanly possible). A minimum of knowledge is not sufficiently odd as to warrant undue curiosity; no knowledge at all, however, particularly over something routine as the assignment of two additional newcomers to Atlantis, is certainly strange.

Something moves in Sheppard's peripheral vision, catching his eye as he leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out. When he turns his head to search it out, he classifies the movement as a passing Marine, with dark skin and the typical buzz cut. Or, more accurately and far more importantly, _the _passing Marine, whom Sheppard had earlier designated a tour guide. Half-standing, Sheppard flags the man down as he walks past their table (albeit for a given value of "past", what with the man being on the other side of the room).

'Hey! Reynolds, over here!'

McKay gives Sheppard a bit of a Look (this one a poor effort; it's not even half-strength, and more than a little half-hearted), but Sheppard's had practise ignoring certain of McKay's Looks (more practice that he'd sometimes like, but then that was McKay for you) and does so now with ease. After all, McKay isn't stupid; he can likely guess that Reynolds is in some way related to their previous conversation.

The Marine, for his part, reacts admirably swiftly. He alters direction and heads directly for Sheppard (not even put off by McKay, He Who Is To Be Feared, though Sheppard admits that title leaves something to be desired and should probably not be mentioned to McKay, or at least Sheppard doesn't plan to be the one doing the mentioning).

Not leaving time for Reynolds to pretend ignorance (of anything), Sheppard tells him (orders him) to sit down. Reynolds does so, sending only a single glance in McKay's direction before concentrating on Sheppard.

'Sir?' the young Marine says (he is, it seems, briefly pretending ignorance after all; or so Sheppard tells himself, because surely the man realises why he wants to talk to him).

By this point, McKay has definitely caught on (and he hadn't even been directly involved, Sheppard thinks, so Reynolds must know). Sheppard knows this for absolute fact, because the next thing anyone says comes out of McKay's mouth, and completely confirms Sheppard's guess.

'How long did you spend with them?' the scientist asks, and follows his question up immediately with 'It had to be at least half an hour, because if it wasn't you weren't even trying.'

Watching McKay's eyes narrow in some undoubtedly obscure calculation, Sheppard wonders if the man means that the Marine wouldn't have been trying to give an accurate or comprehensive tour, or wouldn't have been trying to find out as much about the new arrivals as he could. The latter had of course been the majority of the reason Sheppard had assigned a tour guide (after all, he thinks, most newcomers don't receive a personal guided tour around the city, whatever the quality of said tour).

But whatever meaning McKay had precisely intended to convey, Reynolds evidently understood the message (or at least the general gist of it). And, listening to the Marine detail the events of the tour and his interpretation of them, Sheppard can't help but wonder if it should be strange how much this has come to sound like a debriefing.

* * *

Carter isn't quite sure how Jay has managed to persuade her to recount the history of Atlantis, and a vast majority of her personal experience of it, but he has. That she had been planning to tell him (and Dalton, who probably an equal need for the information) anyway doesn't enter into the matter.

She has, so far, gained approximately nothing in return. In fact, she has instead _lost_ a number of writing implements to O'Neill's incurable tendency to fiddle; most of the items had, however, been soon after reappropriated by Dalton, snatching them out of Jay's grasp and replacing them upon her desk. Only, of course, for Jay to then thieve another.

But regardless of any stationary-theft-byplay, her office's atmosphere is relaxed. This might, in Carter's opinion, have something to do with the fact that Jay had invited himself in, and not been ordered to appear. It might also have something to do with the fact that all present are actively trying to get along. It is to be hoped, at least from Carter's point of view, that the aforementioned atmosphere would not dissipate once she began to intrude on O'Neill's privacy (no matter how much she needs answers, or deserves them, the questions will undoubtedly be somewhat intrusive).

'So why are you here?' Carter asks, having decided that bluntness might be the way to proceed. 'Accompanied by a pair of parole officers?'

'Trust issues,' Jay says, reiterating his earlier sentiments (and the fact that Carter understands where he is coming from, she thinks irritably, doesn't lessen her automatic frustration at the cryptic quality of the statement; and she knows that he knows that, O'Neill having spent as much time around Oma Desala as she had).

He doesn't add anything else to his latest non-explanation. Skirting around or outright ignoring issues he doesn't desire to discuss is one trait that doesn't appear to have altered in the least. This time, however, O'Neill is at a minor disadvantage in the giving-away-information stakes, and Carter had _known_ Dalton would be helpful in this regard.

'The death threats probably didn't _help_, Jay,' Dalton tells him, sounding exasperated (Carter guesses that this is not the first time the captain has told this to his appointed charge; and it isn't, she imagines, the first – nor will it be the last – time Jay has ignored him).

Jay simply waves his hand, dismissing this new charge (and Carter would like some more detail, but she can be patient; getting _any_ information this early on seems promising). Apparently he doesn't much care to bother with evidence not in his favour (although, knowing O'Neill, there had probably been a whole set of complex extenuating circumstances tossed into the in-all-probability-predictably-volatile-and-explosive mix).

Nevertheless: 'Death threats, Jay? Is this something I need to be worried about?'

Carter doubts it (and she thinks her intuition to be correct when Dalton _just _refrains from rolling his eyes, and converts the gesture of frustration into a heavy-duty death glare aimed at O'Neill; if serious death threats had been likely, the captain would be accordingly more serious). The question, however, probably needs asking (after all, she tells herself, you never really knew, and generally found out at the absolute most inopportune time possible), for the sake of appearances if nothing else.

And at some point she will need to get O'Neill on his own to ask him some questions. For instance, just how much does the previously-entirely-unknown Captain Dalton _know_? Does he know who Jay is, who O'Neill is, or does Dalton think him an unusual (extremely unusual, Carter's mind puts in) young man, in whom the government is unnaturally interested? And how much, therefore, is she going to be able to mention around the Air Force captain?

It would be better, Carter thinks, if she is told these things before she makes a mistake, accidentally lets something slip that O'Neill would prefer not to be let out of the bag (and he's only been here for a matter of hours and already Carter is beginning to sense herself on the verge of mangling simple colloquialisms). And for obvious reasons, she can't ask Dalton to tell her what he doesn't know. O'Neill will have to do so (and, Carter realises, she has at some point ceased thinking of him as a problem, though he will undeniably cause them; odd, or maybe not so odd).

At this point in time, though, Jay simply answers 'Nah, I don't reckon so.'

It almost sounds (to Carter, anyway) as if he's trying to skip over this part of the conversation; trying to pretend that whatever these death threats had been, they hadn't happened. She would therefore, at some other time, have to dig deeper. She isn't cruel, but then neither is she willing to ignore this matter (and not merely because she is curious). Death threats do not sound like something to be ignored or brushed aside (in her own opinion, anyway; the target (target_s,_ plural?) of these alleged threats would probably agree with her, Carter thinks, even if Jay, it seems, doesn't).

She narrows her eyes at him, but he only stares back, then shifts his gaze to the pen currently twisting around and around between his fingers. Dalton's soft exhalation suggests he has also noticed the pen's whereabouts, but he does not this time reach over to remove it from the clone's grasp.

'Make sure of it,' Carter finally says, a few tense seconds later.

Jay meets her eyes again, and replies 'Sure thing.' He pauses for a beat, and then adds, 'Ma'am.'

She raises an eyebrow at him, he grins back, his eyes laughing at her (or maybe with her, or only near her, but does it matter?), and the issue is settled.

Dalton hasn't said a word, but some rigidity eases out of his posture, so maybe he possesses some sixth sense, able to accurately gauge O'Neill's mood with nothing more than a guess. Whatever it is he does, it works well. To guarantee Dalton's continued sanity, it probably does need to be successful, at that.

* * *

As Sheppard had earlier suspected, the remainder of his team has turned up, and now sit at the table. Reynolds has disappeared, his report finished, and the crowd that had slowly gathered to listen to him has dissipated also, probably to spread rumours.

'So,' he says. 'Thoughts?'

The ensuing discussion is in-depth, analytical, and also occasionally diverts to make room for an explanation of whatever latest miscommunication issue crops up. The results, in Sheppard's mind, though entertaining, do not actually put them much further ahead in the information-gathering process.

Reynolds' report had for the most part been regarding the respective characters of the newcomers; the younger man cocksure, annoying and devil-may-care, and the marginally older USAF officer formal, his wits about him, and a strange sense of still-on-duty. The tour around Atlantis had, it transpired, consisted for the main part of impromptu and sporadic fake-tour-guide-spiels, met with sarcasm and interest (strangely enough, both emotions had come from both newcomers).

Atlantis, on the other hand, Reynolds had reported (speculated, really, but then that's really all anyone does when it comes to Atlantis' sentience), had been acting oddly. Reynolds hadn't noticed at first, and when he had noticed had put it down to one of Atlantis' eccentricities that no one yet understands (and there are a few of them, and even Sheppard with his gene isn't always sure what is going on with the city). But then, Reynolds had said, when the lights and misbehaving doors had followed their tour, he had begun to suspect...something (he hadn't exactly said what, and Sheppard thinks that Reynolds himself isn't sure what his suspicions are).

But eventually the tour had wound down (or, as Reynolds had said, the Marine had simply run out of places with repeatable stories to take his tour). Captain Dalton and Jay (is there a reason, Sheppard thinks, we don't have a last name for him?) had been deposited by a pair of rooms that had been hurriedly assigned to them. They had dumped their belongings, and Reynolds had left (somewhat disappointed with the lack of information he had managed to pick up).

Sheppard isn't entirely sure what they've gained. He doesn't know why two wholly unexpected people have arrived, he doesn't know who they are, and he doesn't know what they're going to be doing whilst on Atlantis. He also doesn't know why the IOA, or the NID, or who-the-hell-ever, would send (have sent?) two guys (okay, he admits, mainly just the one guy) who obviously stick out (because, a green recruit? How can that be on their top ten list of ways-to-infiltrate-Atlantis? Although, how can it _not_, because Sheppard's life really is just that weird).

But on the other hand, now most of the rest of the city's population also knows exactly what they _don't_ know (and those who don't know will soon discover, and then swiftly remedy, their ignorance via the grapevine). And this way, at least, everyone will be forewarned that they may well be up against even further interference from political busybody higher-ups, even if not what specific form of interference will ensue.

And that can only be a good thing. Right?

**_end part three_**


	4. Part 4

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Yeah, okay, next instalment. ****In which Carter enjoys the virtues of bullet points, irritatingly has statements go incomprehensibly over her head, and doesn't declare an Atlantis-wide Double Fudge Brownie Day; a little later, Teyla observes the recent newcomers to Atlantis and doesn't enjoy awkward small talk even when she initiates it.**

**I really need to learn how to prioritise my time. Seriously.**

_**

* * *

**_

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Four**_

They haven't been sitting in her office all that long. But Jay has migrated from one seat to another, and Carter herself has shifted positions more than once (and has had to restrain the urge to just cross her legs on the chair and be done with it, or perch on the desk, but she isn't telling anyone that). Dalton has merely shifted in his seat every so often.

The conversation has, it must be said, skipped around a little despite her efforts to keep it centred on and around the Problem of Jay (and then she curses herself, because she had promised _no melodrama_). But even from what little she has gained thus far, some pieces of information (knowledge, data) stand out.

First and foremost among the knowledge garnered is this (she thinks, because bullet points can in fact be useful getting matters straight in her head): there are issues between Jay and the American government. They are the issues that had sent him here, and, as he had put it, are _trust issues_. Carter suspects that the lack of trust goes both ways, and in a vicious circle, both parties are correct in their distrust (Jay knows the government distrusts him, and so distrusts them, not always obeying orders, and proving the government right in turn...), and it is not merely paranoia.

Second is the matter of the death threats. She has no more information that that, however, and so must leave contemplation of the matter for another time.

Third is Dalton. Dalton is more unanswered questions than information, though. He may later provide information, but for the moment all Carter knows is that his assignment as O'Neill's parole officer is to follow the clone's every movement, traipsing around after him (she is uncertain how this has affected whatever work the government had presumably assigned to _Jay_, though). It is unsure as to how Captain Greg Dalton, USAF, received this assignment (because really, how many officers would gladly receive the news that they would for the foreseeable future be the parole officer of a teenager?).

And fourth is the disturbing fact that this is, more or less, all that she knows. And the extent to which she can remedy that is dependent upon Jay (and Dalton, but Jay would likely know more about it, as it did after all pertain directly to him).

Four and a half, she should continue an attempted remedy as soon as possible. The earlier she begins, the more time she has before she _really needs_ to know the information (sooner or later, something will crop up, Carter knows it).

Oh. And five, the guided tour around Atlantis had apparently been the pop culture version. The people under Carter's command seem to be practised at coming up with convoluted explanations on the fly (she had suspected as much, although had not previously considered their talents to extend to the vocation of tour guide).

And the term "pop culture" in this instance means that the Marine's spiel had largely consisted of items such as: "And this is where that mountain of sherbet kept appearing, and we still don't know why it stopped except it was really good that it did because apparently our superiors think that sugar highs are a bad idea"; "Don't use that doorway, because last time McGrew tried it he couldn't eat anything green for a month"; "This is where we found that first batch of sex pollen, and don't let the scientists tell you it was anything different"; and "The scientists used to keep their still here, until Doctor Weir had to find out about it" ("And I notice Reynolds didn't say where the still is _now,_" Jay had added). Carter almost wishes that her initial tour around the city had involved as much trivia. It might have helped.

'Why are you _here_, though? Here, in Atlantis?' Carter presently asks Jay (more or less satisfied with the results of her most recent serious question, though discussion did thereafter become somewhat sidetracked, it is time for another; emphasis this time is placed on "here", as opposed to "are", or "why").

He looks at her for a moment, and she doesn't flinch in the face of his carefully blank expression (and even if Carter doesn't like that O'Neill is using it on her, she doesn't flinch). Dalton, also, she notices in her peripheral vision, is watching for Jay's reaction.

'I guess they figured it was far enough away I wouldn't be a problem,' Jay eventually says lightly (and if it sounds forced, Carter won't be telling). He shrugs. 'It's not like they'd actually tell me.'

Dalton frowns at that analysis, and Carter catches the expression and looks inquiringly at him in response. If Dalton has another view of the matter, she thinks, now would be a good time to find out (much as it had seemed that he doesn't know the reasons for Jay's removal to Atlantis himself, Dalton is also the most likely to be able to poke holes in Jay's logic, having the most current information).

'You are told things, though,' Dalton says, his tone suggesting his words to be a question, betraying his confusion. 'And you're told a lot more than most other people are,' he continues (and Carter ponders the possibility that by "other people" Dalton means himself, and wonders just how long ago Dalton had been told where he would be escorting O'Neill next). 'And what you aren't told you generally find out anyway, or guess. So why do you _think_ we're here?'

Jay frowns. 'Now _you're _getting paranoid,' he says (and Carter doesn't miss his attempted conversational sidestep; neither does Dalton, by his expression).

'Jay,' Dalton begins warningly. 'Spit it out.'

Jay spreads his hands, trying to appear disarmingly innocent (he only half succeeds, in Carter's eyes, and she wonders if she's being too cynical, if that is possible). 'Like I said: another galaxy is supposed to keep me far enough out of their way that they can legitimately ignore me. Also, no one does paranoia like the brass.'

Dalton sighs (Carter doesn't, but it is a close-run thing). The captain seems to turn something over in his mind, deciding whether to mention it. Carter watches him carefully, silently urging him to speak (and maybe her powers of telepathy are actually improving, because in the next instant Dalton decides to throw Jay to the proverbial wolves; perhaps Dalton, also, has had enough of O'Neill's obsessive need for secrecy).

'Yes, they're paranoid,' Dalton begins, looking almost pained to have to admit the fact aloud. 'But they are -' he hesitates, and settles on '-practical. If they change their mind-' (Carter mentally translates that to: "_When_ they change their mind, because our superiors are clearly insane like that") '-it will be hard to get you back to Earth.'

Carter has the feeling that much of Dalton's statement went over her head (she doesn't enjoy the feeling). Jay's expression, on the other hand, suggests that he understands exactly what Dalton had meant, and possibly recognises more nuances to the situation that does Dalton. His extremely mulish body language, however, tells both Carter and Dalton that he doesn't care what difficulties their superiors may later undergo.

He backs it up, just to be clear, with 'That's their damn problem. If they didn't want me here, they shouldn't have sent me.'

He sounds bitter. Carter suspects that there's something else she's not getting, here, something more than merely being screwed over by the government (because, honestly, that happens to everyone, whether it is intentional on the government's behalf or not). She studies him intently, trying (and mostly failing) to read his expression (because he has, it seems, picked up some new and subtle nuances since she has last seen him).

She narrows her eyes, watching Jay, seeing Dalton with a near-identical expression. And Jay's stomach grumbles. Loudly. She raises an eyebrow, distracted. Dalton's mouth twitches in an abbreviated grimace (the Air Force captain has probably had to put up with this disconcertion on a regular basis, Carter consoles herself; if Dalton has, she can also manage).

He refuses to be embarrassed, shrugs, and says 'Teenagers, yeah? We're always hungry.'

Carter rolls her eyes, and checks the time. Then she promptly turfs the pair of them out of her office to go and find some food (and to snag some to bring back for her, because she is _allowed_ to ask for casual favours like that; it isn't as though she's planning to declare that Wednesday be Double Fudge Brownie Day, unlike some generals she can name).

* * *

Teyla is eating when she sees the two people who are the topic of very nearly all the current rumours (only nearly, because SGA-7's near-miss with off-world blessings of parenthood despite physical incompatibility is still being talked about) enter the mess hall. The eyes of most people present snap straight to the pair (who, Teyla thinks, both do a remarkable job of ignoring all the attention, given that they can hardly miss it).

It is probably a pity that the three men on her team have already left, she thinks, because she believes they would very much like an opportunity to observe the newcomers. It is "probably", because Teyla knows her team; they are not always cautious when passionate about something. She would prefer any confrontations to take place after she has had a chance to formulate an opinion.

This isn't a slur on the judgement of her team. She knows them too well to think they would ever intentionally allow their emotions to overrule the safety of the city, if an outburst would endanger it, or alert a threatening presence to their knowledge of it (the problem is of course unintentional outbursts, and also the possibility of their vehement opinions colouring her own).

She will, therefore, clearly have to do her utmost observe the newcomers in their stead (because in leaving to find and inform her teammates she might lose her seat, and then not be able to watch at all; this has nothing at all to do with the many ways her teammates might potentially interfere). Teyla settles down to do so, finishing her food at a rate far slower than she had previously been consuming it.

The younger man is not wearing military-style clothing, but jeans, t-shirt, and a jacket that she believes (guessing from a distance) to be made from leather. The older man (though he is still far from old) is wearing a military uniform. Therefore the younger is Jay, while the older is Captain Dalton. That much information is easily concluded, before the two have even sat down at their chosen table to begin eating.

Teyla is seated (unfortunately, she thinks to herself) too far away from the pair to hear their conversation (her chances of success at eavesdropping have, however, increased, she thinks cynically but truthfully; most other conversations have ceased, lessening the noise level, as everyone else present also attempts to eavesdrop). But it is possible to glean something from body language: both Jay and Captain Dalton are evidently comfortable around each other, conversing easily (and, it follows logically, not therefore sitting with each other only because they are both newcomers).

Dalton is more formal, while Jay slouches; Jay is prone to waving his fork in the air (with or without food on the end) when (Teyla assumes) making a point, while Dalton seems to convey enough meaning through facial expression alone. Dalton is more formal (insofar as is possible when eating with someone like his current companion), Jay less so and far more likely to tend to immature antics (poking one's tongue out is not, Teyla thinks, anything that anyone over a certain age should do).

When she has finished her food (having drawn the process out for some time), and disposed of the remains, Teyla decides that a closer encounter may be called for. The decision made, she wastes no further time on dawdling and crosses the room to their table (several eyes following her closely, which she carefully ignores).

'You are Jay?' she asks plainly upon arrival (abrupt, but not rude, she trusts). 'And Captain Dalton?'

They look at her, showing no signs of surprise that she knows who they are (because it is clear that she already knows, and does not truly need to ask). Nevertheless, they answer her politely enough (somewhat contrary to John Sheppard's evaluation of the pair, if not immensely so).

'That's right,' the younger of the pair replies.

The older, the captain, Dalton, asks (almost plaintive, Teyla thinks, but there is also in his words a note of resignation) 'There are rumours already?'

She smiles, a little. 'Some. Word spreads fast. I am Teyla Emmagan,' she begins (thinking introductions to be only both fair and polite), and then pauses, seeing recognition light up in their eyes. 'Colonel Carter has told you?' she guesses.

The young man – Jay – grins (Teyla, watching carefully, thinks maybe the casual, laidback demeanour is a front, he watching her as carefully as she does him). He says 'Yeah. You're on Sheppard's team, right?'

'Yes,' Teyla tells him (but privately thinks that he, like she herself earlier, did not need to ask). 'Along with Ronon Dex and Rodney McKay.'

She watches, but he only nods, appearing to absorb the information and commit it to memory. Captain Dalton, Teyla notices, watches both of them. And then decides, apparently, to temporarily absent himself from the conversation and leave the table (he stands amidst silent communication with Jay that Teyla catches but does not comprehend) to dispose of their used plates and cutlery.

Left on the table is a single plate, containing food a step above the usual military-grade slop that most people, including Teyla when she can help it, avoid. Pie, fruit, meat, all looking to consist of ingredients native to Atlantis, or at least that have been imported from other planets in this area. Jay makes no move to touch it (and in fact, she had earlier observed from her own seat, had been eating before, in such abundance as to suggest a large appetite), and Teyla tilts her head questioningly.

'Who is that for?' she questions, gesturing towards the plate (it should not be considered intrusive to ask, she believes).

'Colonel Carter,' Jay replies (not begrudging her the answer, it seems). He shrugs, and says 'She asked us to take her back some food.'

Teyla nods at his response. 'She is busy with work?' Polite small talk has never, she thinks quietly, been more awkward.

'I think we interrupted her. But at least this way she remembers to eat,' Jay says.

Teyla smiles (she knows well by now the tendencies of some scientists to forget to eat when caught up in their work; and Colonel Carter is still a scientist). 'I see,' she says, temporising, and is saved from the need to find further conversational gambits by Captain Dalton's reappearance.

Jay stands when the other man approaches, and slides the plate closer.

'We'll, uh, see you around, yeah?' Jay says, waving one hand aimlessly in the air (meaning to signify by the gesture Atlantis as a whole, Teyla guesses), the other now occupied with holding the plate of food. As Teyla nods, he says 'It was a pleasure to meet you.'

Captain Dalton, his voice lifted only marginally above a murmur, adds his concurrence with the sentiment. And it is strange how he allows the younger man to take the lead in the conversation (or so Teyla thinks, her internal commentary a sidenote to the situation).

'Likewise,' she tells him (and means it, too, possibly for more reason than merely an introduction, a chance to observe interactions and personality), and watches, motionless, as they leave the room.

It is later (though Teyla consoles herself with the knowledge that it is at least not _too_ much later), meditating on the encounter, that Teyla realises what had felt wrong about Jay and his companion taking food to Colonel Carter. Why should Colonel Carter request such a favour (despite its triviality) from outsiders whom she has only just met?

It is not like the woman she has tentatively come to know (if only from a slight distance), Teyla believes, to perform such an action (or to perform such an action, Teyla hypothesises, without a deeper motive). There is no reason for the Colonel to ask (or that might even be, to _casually_ ask, offhand) that she be brought back food by two newcomers, either of whom could present a threat (however insignificant) to Atlantis.

So why had she?

**_end part four_**


	5. Part 5

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Okay. This was _not_ meant to be this long. Seriously, this section was originally supposed to make up _part _of a chapter. Not the whole thing. Oops. ****Also, it took longer to write than the last couple. This is mostly because the next parts will take longer to write also, because real life has the unfortunate habit of interfering. But this part is now written. If this story had any real plot at all, this particular part would probably be mostly termed "filler". Mostly because of the aforementioned unexpected expansion. Sorry.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Five**_

The _Daedalus_, Carter has recently learnt ("recently" meaning only a matter of moments earlier, because telling her information a reasonable period of time before she needs to act on it just doesn't seem to be important anymore), will be beginning its return voyage to the Milky Way and Earth after spending only a single full day at Atlantis (in other words, _tomorrow_, Carter thinks, wondering why she had only been told this fact _today_, and not yesterday when the ship had arrived). It seems to Carter that only a very small amount of time (although thankfully not absolutely and ridiculously small) has been set between the two legs of the journey (and Carter immediately suspects Caldwell's hand in the matter, only justly given his position as commander of the ship; a lingering phobia of Pegasus-brand insanity may also be at fault).

But even if Carter wouldn't herself wish to have her intergalactic trips separated by so little time, it's really nothing to do with her (after all, she doesn't have to go). And, apparently, there is a deadline to be met (although Carter quietly suspects the importance of any government-issued deadline is, if not fabricated entirely, then at least exaggerated). And deadlines are clearly important, and this one is very much of importance, or so Caldwell says. Carter just agrees, commiserating with him (it's not, after all, as if she can confirm her suspicions, so benefit of the doubt it is; and also common politeness).

They are standing on a balcony, some distance between them; Caldwell leaning against the city's wall, while Carter has her forearms propped on the railing. Their position is hopefully far enough away from both eavesdroppers (or, Carter muses, any random passersby who will readily become eavesdroppers should the opportunity present itself) and from any explosions the scientists may be currently cooking up (it's never good to appear totally out of control of your command's actions, and Carter prefers to steer her fellow colonel away from anything that might create that appearance).

The atmosphere is not quite awkward (or if it is, both officers are easily ignoring it), but there is a minimum of conversation. It is a far better use of their time, and far more calming, to do nothing but stare out at the waves, at the tall spires and seemingly-fragile architecture of the rest of the city. There needs to be some breaks from the inherent turmoil and insanity-inducing chaos and danger of their jobs (and it is just as well, Carter thinks, because otherwise she really would be crazy).

There is of course the knowledge that at some point Carter will need to return to actively carrying out her job. Running Atlantis, and in the process attempting to stage-manage the actions of its inhabitants (in such a way that they will not notice, or at least take offence) to promote the cause of everyone surviving the week (or, in especially bad circumstances, the day or even the hour), is not an easy task. Taking a break from it, while advisable, is not always easily possible.

Also, Sheppard hasn't yet complained about Jay's natural irritation talents (although, she thinks, give it time; it hasn't been a full day yet). McKay is silent and hasn't recently loudly abused anyone in Carter's hearing. And silence isn't necessarily a hopeful sign, because when personnel – either here or at the SGC – are silent (and McKay is not only silent, he is silent _while working busily on his laptop_), they're generally cooking up a plan of some description. And that description is usually "absolutely insane, even if it did work"; Carter isn't admitting to any such plan-conception moments of her own, though.

No one has accidentally switched on a previously-unknown Ancient artefact, or been unfortunately drunk somewhere Carter has had to notice their antics (or, you know, unfortunately anything else, "anything else" covering a _truly_ unfortunate range of possibilities). No one has brought any stray children back to Atlantis post-mission (SG-1 had, it seems, started a trend all those years ago; Carter tries not to think how many years that had in fact been). As far as it goes, life on Atlantis has been quiet (if not life in Pegasus as a whole).

These are not good omens. The universe only holds off on inconvenient or harmful incidents when it is saving up for something far worse (and it's probably strange that she would almost welcome an unfortunate incident in one of the scientists' labs (although nothing life-threatening, she feels she should add mentally, just in case the universe is listening), just to break the worrying calm). But right now, Carter can at least ignore such omens for a little longer until their consequences (which will almost undoubtedly be negative) actively begin to intrude on her life.

Eventually, Caldwell breaks the silence (because much longer, peaceful as it had been, the quiet might have become unnerving; it is too rare a presence in her life for Carter to be wholly used to it) with 'So how are they treating you here?'

Carter twists her torso to look at him, standing behind her (buying time to decide on an answer).

'Much as you would expect,' she says (carefully non-committal, but also entirely truthful).

Caldwell gives a vague grunt that she could interpret as meaning anything (she doesn't bother to try to interpret it at all). 'So: they're a mite suspicious, tentatively welcoming, and polite in such a way that it leaves their options open for later rudeness?'

Carter smiles a bit (he's practically on the money, after all, even if a little cynical about the whole matter; and of course she hasn't been here quite long enough to have figured out all the nuances of the expressions of Atlantis' residents). 'More or less,' she says, and leaves him to guess which aspect of his statement is "more", and which "less".

'Well, you look like you're in one piece,' Caldwell says, and leaves it at that (and Carter chooses to interpret that as a statement of faith in her ability to remain in the aforementioned one piece).

She nods, and turns back to face the water. She hasn't commanded the city for long, hasn't even been _in_ the city for long, but Carter has already learnt the value of the surrounding, calming waters. Of course, likely enough something will soon crop up to disturb that rhythmic motion (she isn't sure what, exactly, but it's probably futile to guess anyway, because this "something" could really be _anything_).

But it's probably best not to tempt fate by encouraging it (or so she believes, because the universe truly needs no encouragement whatsoever to dole out unpredictable circumstances), so Carter keeps quiet about her suspicions of future disruption. Caldwell, for one, doesn't need any further motivation to leave the galaxy (and she is, Carter notes mentally, coming off as a little unkind here; Caldwell is not quite so absurdly desperate to leave as she makes out, and in any case a desire to leave is not so absurd or ridiculous, even if she does not share it herself).

A few minutes more pass before Carter asks 'How was your journey getting here?' It is, she believes, adequate small talk (and as an added benefit, regards a topic that may even open up discussion for other subjects closer to her current area of interest).

'Much as was to be expected,' Caldwell replies (and had that choice of words, Carter wonders, been a subtle dig at her?). 'But we're used to travelling here by now. No green recruits at the moment, other than the ones we brought here as passengers, so everyone has at least some space travel under their belt. Not,' he adds, 'that some people aren't irritatingly prone to screw-ups all the same.'

This assertion of fact catches at Carter's curiosity, and she asks 'Screw-ups? Minor or major?'

'Minor, thankfully,' the other colonel says. 'It doesn't make it any less annoying when they should know better. Simple orders are not something that should be easily mistaken. It just seems to be mistaken about every time it can possibly be managed.'

'Getting to feel deliberate?' Carter questions (because it might be, depending on the error in question, or the individual involved; on the other hand, messy situations often evolve entirely by accident).

'Maybe. I can understand the occasional error in the acquisition of food-stuffs, or in rostering. Or who sits in the chair,' he adds with a sideways glance at Carter (she ignores the allusion; that had all been Mitchell's influence). Caldwell continues, 'It's the persistence of ridiculous claims of "cultural significance", delusions of microchips inserted into their brains letting them eavesdrop on various intelligence agencies, and tin-foil helmets – and that's not a joke – that's getting to be suspicious. Just because we _know_ aliens exist,' Caldwell says disgustedly, and then trails off, frowning at the water.

Carter thinks, in light of that information, that she can understand how Caldwell feels. Of course, the fact that it is much how she feels on an almost-constant basis (because the men and women currently under her command are equally as strange as Caldwell's on an almost-constant basis, albeit, Carter realises, with some level of justification) certainly helps her empathy.

'Having paranoid fears of alien invasion confirmed might only make someone's paranoia worse,' she offers (and she knows she isn't actually helping the situation in the least, but really, what can anyone do?).

Caldwell gives her a blank stare. 'Disobeying direct orders cannot be excused by the need to "ensure my actions were in accordance with the prophecy",' the colonel tells Carter, clearly quoting someone. 'And neither is "protecting my lucky charms" a valid reason, whether it's being used as a euphemism or not.'

Carter grins. 'Has anyone said yet that God contradicted their orders?'

'It's only a matter of time. But people are fairly twitchy about the orders of gods, so maybe not,' Caldwell says (and, on second thoughts, Carter agrees with his assessment; alien involvement made that excuse either too easy or too potentially threatening or paranoia-inducing to realistically use). 'But someone who shall remain nameless claimed that he bought a lordship on eBay, and could therefore use that position of status to ignore orders he was disinclined to obey.'

'Did he succeed?' Carter asks (silently wondering firstly, just how a lordship was supposed to achieve anything, and secondly, just how stupid the soldier in question was to assume the tactic might work).

'No,' Caldwell said, his tone clearly implying "Of course the moron didn't get away with such an idiotic response" (and possibly, Carter mentally adds to her translation, with the inclusion of a few ruder words).

'And have The Powers That Be disallowed access to Skippy's List yet?'

'No,' Caldwell repeats. 'I'm not sure if they realise its influence.' He pauses, and then decides to add 'And it's possible that General O'Neill is deliberately delaying bringing it to their attention.'

Carter carefully straightens her expression, and merely says 'Possibly.' Colonel Caldwell's guess is, after all, entirely possible (and even if Caldwell takes her words as a confirmation, then technically she hasn't actually confirmed anything, even if the conclusion he leaps to is correct). She changes the subject slightly, and says 'So besides from outbreaks of insanity, did everything else go according to plan?'

'More or less,' Caldwell says, considering the truth of his words. 'Emphasis in some cases on the "less". The trip here was long,' he adds (and Carter thinks she sees an opening, and aims for it), 'and so allowed for plenty of unusual circumstances.'

'Longer than usual?' she asks casually (or, she hopes it appears casual, because she thinks that it would likely be somewhat embarrassing to plan to be subtle but instead only manage to be obvious).

'It seemed like it,' Caldwell says, grumpy and grumbling (and, yes, yes, yes, this _is_, Carter thinks, the right direction; she then stops to remind herself to calm down, because this really isn't so exciting). 'But Captain Dalton promised me that it could have been a lot worse than it was. I trust him to be a reliable source of information, at least in that respect,' the colonel adds (and, bulls-eye, Carter was entirely right).

'Jay was causing problems?' Carter asks, and then continues with another question when she sees Caldwell's nod. 'And did Captain Dalton happen to tell you anything else? About, for example, why they were sent here?' she asks (having gained acknowledgement that she is aiming in the right direction, Carter has decided to abandon much of her previously attempted subtlety).

Caldwell is not startled at her question (he wouldn't have lasted long commanding the _Daedalus_ if he startles easily), but looks instead distinctly (and unexpectedly) aggravated. 'You mean _you_ haven't found out? He hasn't told you?'

Carter is confused at the intensity of his query (she has straightened in response to the turn the conversation has taken, she notices), and then works it out (partly, anyway). 'That's a "no", then?' she asks him rhetorically, dryly amused (she hadn't _really_ expected O'Neill to tell Caldwell, but evidently he had irritated Caldwell enough for the man to become curious). 'All he told me was that the government had trust issues, were paranoid, and didn't tell him why he's here rather than somewhere else. It didn't actually explain anything,' Carter says, and leaves it at that (it's all true, even if she isn't sharing certain aspects of the conversation including Jay's feelings about the whole situation). 'Why expect him to tell me, though?'

'He's an O'Neill, isn't he? And you're Sam Carter,' Caldwell says, and shrugs. 'It seemed as good a reason as any,' he finishes (Carter thinks that his reasoning had more to do with desperate curiosity than logic, and thinks that he knows it, too).

Carter sighs (quietly). 'Maybe. But it hasn't worked out that way so far,' she says.

Caldwell has moved to stand next to her at the railing (letting Carter untwist her torso somewhat to a more comfortable position), and at her words grunts doubtfully. 'It's been less than a day. In time he might tell you,' he suggests hopefully.

'And if he does, I take it you want to know about it?' Carter asks.

'If it's not too much trouble, then yes,' Caldwell tells her (which means, Carter knows, _yes, obviously, and you shouldn't even need to ask_).

She nods. 'When you're in the area,' she says (ignoring any other, more serious and equally possible, issues that may prevent her from telling him anything).

Caldwell accepts this, content with even a vague promise of future information. They both go back to staring out across the city. The silence spreads, resettling over the pair until Carter's earpiece (she had known when she had left it in that it would interrupt something) crackles, and requests her presence in a science lab (she is still a scientist, after all, and not everyone has forgotten that).

Carter submits her brief apologies (or whatever the correct term is, because she isn't exactly saying sorry for abandoning Caldwell to the peace and quiet), and vacates the balcony, leaving Caldwell alone. A few minutes later, halfway to the lab, she pauses in mid-stride.

Colonel Caldwell had called Jay "O'Neill". It doesn't follow that he knows Jay is a clone. But it means there are now (although only for a short time, given the imminent departure of the _Daedalus_) at least three people in Atlantis (besides Jay himself) who know Jay's surname (assuming it actually _is_ still his surname, of course, a fact Carter keeps having to remind herself; it doesn't do to possess too many unconfirmed assumptions about O'Neill). And she still hasn't learnt anything else.

It would be, Carter thinks as she regains her momentum, a good idea to seriously attempt to clear the whole matter up (as much as it will ever be possible, anyway, because they had never entirely figured all of General O'Neill's issues out, even with all those years as a team (and, _we still are a team_, Carter tells herself firmly)) as soon as possible. She can't afford to be continually preoccupied with the matter (and neither can Atlantis afford it, to have a commander be so abstracted from the various threatening situations it periodically falls into).

Carter nods firmly to herself. A decision made (no matter how effective it may or may not prove to be), she feels somewhat better (she hadn't quite realised how much this had all been preying on her, even if she had encouraged it to do so). She turns her thoughts instead (deliberately acting on that decision) to whatever might have potentially happened to the scientists that they need her to be there.

It isn't particularly encouraging that there exists a long list of precedents, many of which involve growing, initially unobtrusive and unknown danger. Carter does her best to ignore the list. It is not in any way helpful, and neither is the accompanying pessimistic worldview (or universe-view, as the case may be). She has better things to concentrate on.

Those things may or may not include composing a mental email to General O'Neill, mentioning the (possibly morale-boosting) effects that the Department-wide distribution of Skippy's List had brought forth. Said email certainly wouldn't, however, include any suggestion that the general continue his efforts to prevent any ban of the aforementioned list or any of its derivatives (because written evidence can only be incriminating, and Carter surely doesn't want that).

**_end part five_**


	6. Part 6

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Sorry for the delay. Also, this is again far longer than I had intended (why does this stuff get away from me so badly?). Um. Okay, next warning I feel obliged to give (you can see I'm parcelling these out, though only because I tend to forget I mean to give them, not for any other nasty reason): basically every character is going to be at least at little (if not more) OOC. You may have already noticed this. Also, I've more or less labelled this fic as AU in my head (admittedly that's mostly because it is). Uh, yeah, I think that was it (however, my memory bears remarkable similarity to a sieve, so...). Enjoy. **

**Also, as a sidenote, I think I am developing an awful, awful addiction to parentheses. And possibly coffee, but that's a whole other story.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Six**_

Sheppard doesn't have the steadfast dependence on coffee that others on Atlantis have, but his body does routinely express the cravings commonly associated with the need for caffeine. Neither do Teyla or Ronon possess the addiction (but Sheppard suspects that, in future, his two teammates may be worn down by persistence) to which so many of the Atlantis residents readily admit (coffee-addiction, anyway, because Sheppard refuses to contemplate some of the others he has stumbled upon). McKay, of course, along with most of his department, has long ago succumbed.

It is all of this that (along with Sheppard's currently-coffee-deprived brain, spinning these ideas around in his mind) makes it somewhat strange that of the members of his team eating breakfast, McKay is the one absent. Of course, it is a fairly _late_ breakfast, so it is entirely possible that McKay has eaten already, come and then left before the rest of his team had arrived. Thoroughly possible, and it is somewhat reassuring that Sheppard knows McKay does not usually forget to eat altogether (it is, obviously, very nearly the opposite situation).

But whatever _is_ currently occupying McKay is probably important (to him, at least, if not the universe at large; Sheppard still occasionally finds it mildly scary that the latter is, in their lives, actually a valid possibility). Sheppard can tell that this is so, because McKay wouldn't miss out on something like this (because not only is this series of discussions composed mostly of free-for-all rumours, but the subject matter contained within also directly affects their lives).

But, well, if McKay is going to turn up then he will (and Sheppard's recently-proven ESP theory suggests that he certainly will, before long), and Sheppard doesn't much feel like going to find the scientist (uncharitable as that sounds) and become a victim of McKay's wrath regarding the interruption (deserved or not, there are plenty of other applicants for that position). Teyla and Ronon don't look like they're about to volunteer, either (though, and Sheppard supposes it to be technically possible, not for the same reasons as Sheppard), and Sheppard doesn't push the matter (or, really, raise it aloud at all). The three are perfectly content (or so it seems to Sheppard) to sit in silence, steadily eating their ways through their respective breakfasts (or in Ronon's case, Sheppard suspects, through multiple servings of breakfast).

It isn't until Sheppard has all but finished his food that he feels the urge to speak (or, if he's being accurate, that the urge to speak becomes too persistent to ignore). This is not only because silence, comfortable or not, can sometimes become unnerving. It is particularly so when Sheppard can't help but subconsciously wait for the next shoe to drop (and really, Sheppard thinks, is it some supernatural, metaphorically-inclined _millipede_ dropping shoes on us?).

But regardless of the various qualities (positive or not) of silence, there are actually new (and arguably also disturbing) developments in their lives (but then, Sheppard wonders briefly, not for the first time, when are there not?) that need to be put under the (possibly slightly fuzzy, if caffeinated) microscope of their discussion. These recent developments are probably (or so Sheppard assumes) more or less at the forefront of his companions' minds also, and therefore don't really need introduction.

'So,' Sheppard says, beginning with a brief introduction to his present thoughts anyway (because, he thinks, it would probably be a bad habit to start assuming that people can _always _read his mind, regardless of That Incident on That Planet With The Abnormally-Intelligent Tigers). 'Intel-gathering technique suggestions regarding potential hidden dangers, anyone?' he asks the other two as they begin their own final stages of finishing their food.

It isn't (or so Sheppard tells himself a touch defensively, which might have indicated the level of justification the unvoiced complaint to which he was replying could claim, had he not promptly ignored it) as though he had ever said he would deliver a _long_ introduction. His team are pretty good at pseudo-telepathy these days, even if their talents are not quite equal to the real thing (although admittedly Sheppard has never actually _asked_ if they have ever legitimately possessed the real thing without the involvement of inconveniently meddling aliens; he doesn't plan to ask, just in case). He is perfectly content in their ability to decode his meaning from abbreviated sentences. And they do, of course (Sheppard, when he has a choice, is not one to pick his team members lightly).

'Ask,' Teyla suggests simply.

Ronon evidently agrees with her, as does Sheppard (because, honestly, it really is probably the easiest method, the one most likely to gain results), but makes one addition 'Not those two, though.' He doesn't have to state which two people he is talking about.

Sheppard nods. 'Working backwards,' he begins, turning the situation over in his mind (considering it as carefully as he had been trying to avoid doing all night, so that he could get at least some undisturbed sleep, because stocking up on sleep can never be termed a bad idea), 'they were on the _Daedalus_ for – how long does it take to get here from Earth? Someone on board must know something about them. Even only rumours.'

'They'll have rumours,' Ronon grunts (and does Sheppard detect in that statement a note of – what? Exasperation? Disapproval? Reproach? Weariness at the oft-incomprehensible actions of Earth's military?).

'If we are going to ask the regular crew, it will need to be soon,' Teyla puts in. 'They are leaving tomorrow, I believe.'

'Wait. When did you hear that?' Sheppard asks, cutting across his own initially-planned sentence in sudden confusion (and also a less-sudden continued fit of irritation and frustration that _is he told __**nothing**__ anymore_?).

'Last night,' Teyla explains (unlike many other people in the city who apparently see fit to tell Sheppard _nothing_, he thinks, and then tries to calm down at least a little, because this is possibly unjust anger, and even if it's not, it isn't very productive). 'I was eating, and overheard some of the _Daedalus' _crew discussing the situation rather loudly.'

'Unhappy, were they?' Ronon asks (Sheppard thinks his teammate should possibly not enjoy the misery of these unnamed crewmembers quite so much, but dismisses the idea as unimportant; the quiet amusement Sheppard may or may not experience on occasion regarding such petty misery, however, obviously has no bearing on that dismissal).

Teyla just smiles in confirmation, and then carefully turns her attention to scooping up the last scraps of her food with her spoon. 'Colonel Caldwell will likely possess the most accurate knowledge. The rest of the crew will have more rumours than fact,' she says, and although nothing in her words is something that Sheppard doesn't already know, it is reassuring to be given this affirmation (this reassurance is something that, Sheppard thinks, Teyla probably already realises; she would not have otherwise bothered wasting time restating what are potentially-foregone conclusions). 'This does not mean one form of information is more valuable than the other,' she muses, almost to herself (but not quite, Sheppard notes, and wonders if she mentioned that fact as a pre-emptive strike against any male stupidity that may spontaneously appear), and then sets the spoon neatly down on the plate in front of her.

'So we need to get probably Caldwell first, today,' Sheppard says, first making sure no one is in earshot to hear that statement (because he isn't _that_ stupid, and does in fact realise how bad that sound out of context; this is even, or perhaps especially, given how many situations his life manages to encompass wherein that course of action might actually _make perfect sense_ even when taken literally). 'And then as many of the rest of the crew as we can.'

Sheppard is about to continue when Ronon interrupts him, saying 'We might have some help with that,' while staring pointedly over Sheppard's shoulder.

Sheppard turns slightly in his seat, staying twisted for only as much time as it takes to see that nearly every fulltime crewmember of the _Daedalus _present is involved in deep (and no doubt helpfully gossip-filled) conversation with at least two residents of Atlantis each. Sheppard untwists his torso to face the two people sitting at his own table.

'That could work,' he says (with a hint of relief, and also a hint of _how did I not see that one coming_; because really, the people he worked with did gossip and rumours like no one else). 'Yeah. It might work,' Sheppard adds (and he is _not _being uselessly repetitive, he tells himself firmly, just...reinforcing the very valid point that deserves such reinforcement, and he should stop right about now before he digs himself in any deeper, something he should try harder to avoid in general, but also especially when it actually happens within his own mind, Sheppard reminds himself, and then trails off).

Teyla steps in (and therefore saves Sheppard from further mental humiliation) with a comment of 'If we wait about a day, then the gossip will have spread and multiplied significantly. Combined with further observation after spending enough time around them, it might be enough to produce some insight.' Her comment is, Sheppard thinks, perfectly valid, if possibly minimally degrading to the reputations of the people they work and share their lives with (if McKay had been here – as he is strangely _still _not – he would have come up with some exact equation calculated in his spare time that dictates precisely how many hours of rumour-mongering are required for the needed levels of data dissemination; Sheppard refuses to contemplate the problem or whether or not he is glad he is not currently having to listen to such a formula).

However (because devil's advocate, Sheppard believes, should still play a part in their lives irrelevant of the horror stories recently in circulation regarding the Dread Experiences on the Planet of the Goat-Priests: Take Two, which had diminished that tradition of argumentative contrariness): 'Are we sure that just watching them will be enough to actually find anything out?'

'I saw them here last night, eating,' Teyla informs the two men. 'I may have gained some information.'

And that statement, predictably, caught Sheppard's interest well and good. 'What sort of information?' Sheppard asks, while Ronon's sudden look of focus on the conversation betrays his own heightened curiosity.

'I am,' Teyla begins, pauses, and finishes calmly 'not yet sure. I will think on it,' she says.

Sheppard frowns a bit, deliberately unwrinkles his forehead (_not_ because McKay, that hypocrite, had told him that practice would give him unneeded wrinkles), and leaves Teyla be. She will, he knows, come up with a relevant gem of information in the near future, and probably when it is most needed (or then again maybe not, because the universe is irritable and contrary like that; Sheppard has long ago learnt not to hope that all the intel he wants will be provided a suitably long length of time before it is required, because he will inevitably be disappointed).

'Okay,' Ronon says. 'So: Caldwell, _Daedalus _crew, rumourmongers from Atlantis. Who else?'

And, like that, the conversation is again on track. Ideally, everyone needs a Ronon to do that, Sheppard thinks (he is then promptly a little bemused at this thought, and frowns instinctively at his empty plate; he can never with confidence rule out the possibility that the cooks (and by "cooks" Sheppard of course means that absolute lunatic he is sure has been appropriated from some other wing of a government project purely to save his former superiors from his "culinary perfection", or attempts to gain same) have been experimenting again).

'The new recruits,' Sheppard says definitively, operating under the basis that they, too, had been cloistered on the _Daedalus _for some time with the pair of unknown newcomers currently victims of the combined interests of everyone and his (oops, mentally censors Sheppard, because apparently the _Daedalus _has brought with it unwanted vibes of politicking and PC-ness, that should be "their") dog.

There is a brief silence, wherein there are no comments. There are not a large number of variables in this situation, and (to Sheppard, at least) they appear to have sped through most of them in a matter of minutes.

'Well, _them_, obviously,' Sheppard says, at a loss for a better suggestion.

'Not them,' Ronon reiterates.

After another moment of silence, Teyla adds carefully 'Colonel Carter.'

The men look blankly at her. 'Why Colonel Carter?'

'I think Colonel Carter knows them,' Teyla says. 'Or, she knows at least one of them.'

Sheppard stares at her a little (_probably_ not looking as stupidly confused as he temporarily feels). 'Pardon?' he asks, needing clarification (preferably a deal of it, because that unexpected judgement of Teyla's had sounded ever so slightly like a non sequitur).

'When I met Jay and Captain Dalton here last night,' Teyla begins to explain (and Sheppard momentarily feels even more lost, before he connects this statement with Teyla's previous comments), 'they said that Colonel Carter had asked them to bring her some food. They were doing so.' Sheppard looks at his teammate, and before he can say anything (or even give her a significant questioning look asking her to continue), Teyla goes on patiently (no doubt used to Sheppard's periodic bouts of stupidity, whether real or falsified), 'It was unusual, because there is no reason for Colonel Carter to ask complete strangers for favours, even ones so simple.'

'So you figure she knows them?' Ronon asks (he leaves off, Sheppard notices, and assumes Teyla does likewise, the "And you guessed that from such an irrelevant detail?" part of his question).

'Yes,' Teyla says.

Sheppard nods. 'Okay,' he says, taking that new parcel of information (because, really, Teyla isn't often wrong with matters of intuition) and trying to see how _it _factored into their hypotheses (a more difficult task, he rapidly finds, than accepting it as truth; Sheppard decides, therefore, to pass the problem on). 'So what do we think that means?'

'There're things people aren't telling us,' Ronon says plainly.

Teyla says mildly 'Maybe there has not been time. Colonel Carter did not look as though she was expecting them to arrive either, and there has been much happening since then. Maybe she is not sure of the meanings either.'

'But she knows more than we do,' Sheppard says, firm in at least that conviction (and it probably isn't hard to know more than he does on this specific area, as much as he – and nearly everyone else in the city as well – would dearly like to know more). 'And for whatever reason, she hasn't told us. And if she was going to tell anyone, it would be us,' he finishes (equally secure in his knowledge of _that_ particular fact also).

His teammates (the two of his teammates who are present, anyway, and where _is_ McKay? They're having a discussion of import, here, and what exactly has happened to that ESP that Sheppard had earlier speculated on?) nod in agreement. If Colonel Carter knows the odd pair, then she certainly hasn't told anyone. And if she does know them (which it is almost certain she does), then she should have told (should have thought to tell, should have considered it – and then had decided against it?) at least _someone_. Something is, clearly, askew _somewhere _(even if Sheppard isn't thoroughly sure what aspect of the universe has come adrift).

And Sheppard believes that he should by rights know the identities of everyone in his city; but he doesn't know, because he hasn't been told. And that just isn't right (the logic really is, Sheppard thinks, kind of simple).

But the next question is: If the newcomers present a threat, and if Colonel Carter knows them, does she also know of any potential danger? Or is she involved, herself, in any potential oncoming danger that Sheppard will need to defend his people against (in whatever form it may take, whether bureaucracy and red tape, or bungled leadership decisions, or invading aliens)?

Sheppard hopes (because he really doesn't like the idea, because he does actually sort of like Colonel Carter) that the answer to the latter question is a resounding _no_. As for the first question, he isn't so sure. If she doesn't know of danger, then that isn't so good (unless it means there isn't any danger to know _of_, but Sheppard has found it best to always linger well on the safe side of such alternatives, and ignores that option). If she does know, then what is she planning to do about it, and why hasn't she told Sheppard?

Sheppard is, clearly, at something of a quandary here. And also at something of a loss (though, he trusts, not for too long). And, of course, the simplest and easiest method would obviously be to actually _ask_ Colonel Carter what she knows. Sheppard may still do that, not least because he knows that Teyla, being an absolute fount of common sense-related wisdom, (in contrast to Ronon, ever-lasting source of combat pragmatism and straightforward solutions; McKay, who incessantly complicates everything with hyperbolic exaggeration; and Sheppard, who knowingly and deliberately attempts to learn something from each approach but isn't always sure if he succeeds) will likely advise that course of action.

He just isn't going to ask Colonel Carter about it _yet._ It isn't as though he can't justify himself, because he can (however flimsy those justifications might be, or how long it might take Sheppard to bring one to the forefront of his mind; he suspects that may have something to do with the fact that while Carter has been with the Stargate Program since almost the beginning, she hasn't been with _Atlantis _since the beginning, and that seems to change matters). But as much as Sheppard personally likes Colonel Carter, she isn't Doctor Weir. She isn't Elizabeth. She's plainly as effective and efficient at her job as Elizabeth had been (even if not everyone in the city admits it, most do; to Sheppard, there does often seem to be some pervasive personality cult leaking from Earth). She's good people. She just isn't her predecessor (and Sheppard knows the logic is unreasonable, he knows it is absolutely nothing Carter has any say over; but he can't help the little irrationalities that creep into his mind).

And those really are just excuses, and Sheppard does actually realise that. It just isn't going to stop him from taking a more convoluted route to the desired information (this route, Sheppard knows, may take the form of informally interviewing anyone he can get his hands besides those directly involved or biased, for a start at least). And then, once he's managed to map out the territory, _then_ he'll take the issue to Colonel Carter (and be careful to ignore that technically he should be doing so now, immediately the problem makes itself known). And the rest of his team will more than likely agree with him (well, no, Sheppard knows them, and he can be more definite than that; Rodney will complain about Sheppard's chosen tack, if he isn't whinging that Sheppard has been too slow to come up with the idea, and Teyla and Ronon will likewise submit possible corrections and then go along with the plan regardless).

The real root of the problem, of course, is what their next immediate step is going to be. An overall, grand summation of an interlinked and overarching plan is doubtless useful (little as Sheppard seems to use them these days, generally going by their practised-enough-to-teach-a-class-on improvisation techniques when Plans A, B and, more often than not, Plans C through to E as well, all go to hell). But it doesn't matter how much Atlantis residents may on occasion (usually due to their general lack of exposure to such an approach) hail such products of careful and studied preparation and forethought as nothing short of the return of the Ancients (or, considering the general rat-bastardry of much of that race, far above and beyond that event), it doesn't always give the answers needed, just as Sheppard by now knows (and is relearning right this second, unneedfully). And, obligingly, the issue is spelled out for them in Ronon's usual truncated style.

'So what now?' Ronon asks (possibly rhetorically, Sheppard isn't sure).

Sheppard pauses, and then (exuding confidence in the answer he provides despite the split-second, mostly-impulse nature of his preceding decision) says 'Lorne.' A second later, he expands with 'We can drop in on the seminar.'

Teyla smiles at that (Ronon doesn't, but Sheppard can tell he's considering it), and Sheppard can understand why. The introductory spiels that are now received at Stargate Command (unlike, say, back when Sheppard passed through the facility) before new recruits (or, that is, new recruits for a given value of "new") are transferred to another galaxy are, Sheppard understands, fairly in-depth as a rule. They still aren't quite the same, however, as the mandatory "lessons" given by Atlantis personnel each time a new ship-load of recruits arrives at the city.

The reactions never fail to be at least somewhat amusing to the more seasoned personnel. The tapes, Sheppard knows, remain in circulation for some significant length of time after each of the seminars. They may then possibly be archived by the anthropology department for the sake of keeping accurate records, or something equally academic-sounding and equally false-sounding, but they aren't officially telling anyone anything (and this entire process may only be so that they can then prove susceptible to bribes for the purpose of giving private screenings).

**_to be continued..._**


	7. Part 7

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: okay. Sorry for the long delay. Um. I have, as per requests (and, incidentally, thank you to those who did review), attempted to cut down on parentheses. It worked, more or less. I can't promise anything regarding the future, but this part does indeed have less than the usual number (not that that's saying much, but...).**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Seven**_

The large room that has been appropriated to house the new-recruit seminars (and Sheppard carefully avoids mention of the other, derogatory, labels that the endeavour has accumulated, because with his position of authority he's meant to set a _good _example) is currently completely full, every seat in use. The new arrivals had all been herded into the room earlier in the morning, regardless of whether they had been to Atlantis before or not. They are now undoubtedly sitting, Sheppard knows from much previous experience, segregated into broad groupings of military and civilian, and then into smaller ones that depend on branches of the military, or departments of science.

The room is set up almost like a lecture theatre, long rows of seats facing the open space at the front of the room. To continue the illusion of a lecture theatre, that open space contains a pseudo-podium and a very large screen. And, of course, the room is indeed being used much as a lecture theatre is used: to lecture people who may not at the moment be students, but who are certainly here to learn.

The recruits _need_ to learn, military and civilian alike, because life in this galaxy is only predictable in the danger it presents (but of course, that statement holds equally true in the galaxy from which the recruits came). Personal opinion doesn't enter into the matter. Every newcomer to Atlantis attends the seminars. And that includes those newcomers whom no one can definitively name for sure, or who shouldn't be here at all.

The slightly smaller room situated beside the first also contains a large screen, and is also full of people. There are only two major differences. This second group is, firstly, made up of seasoned Atlantis personnel; and secondly they are watching not educational videos aimed to instruct them as to appropriate responses to typical (and a few atypical) dangers but a live recording of the recruits in the other room. It is to this second room that Sheppard and two thirds of the remaining members of SGA-1 make their way.

Upon arrival, slipping inside and leaning against the wall by the door, Sheppard is somewhat gratified to realise that their timing is pretty much perfect. The first of the learning experiences caught in video format has, in the larger room, started playing. Sheppard acknowledges this to be a double bonus. Firstly, currently on screen are some pricelessly hilarious facial expressions (but Sheppard does at least _try_ not to become sidetracked, because he is here for a different purpose); secondly Lorne is now available for discussion, having left his charges to watch the video alone (although watched in turn).

Lorne, Sheppard well knows, is possessed of that strange sixth sense all competent XOs own. Sheppard is therefore unsurprised when Lorne looks at him almost immediately, and then carefully steps around spectators to reach Sheppard. Teyla and Ronon, meanwhile, are watching the screen with some visible degree of enthusiasm and amusement. They are, however, focused on the back corner of the room that Sheppard had himself noted worthy of importance, given that it contains, among others, both Jay and Dalton.

And, Sheppard realises abruptly, his teammates are not alone in giving that corner their near exclusive concentration. The recording itself has been focused by someone on that corner. The spectators of this event are very evidently interested in the more unusual of the new recruits, and Sheppard thinks that at least some of that interest must be because gossip travels fast.

As Sheppard watches the screen, waiting for Major Lorne to successfully wade through the crowd, Jay just barely smothers a grin at something on the video that makes Dalton look perturbed and most of the other recruits around them look quietly alarmed. The alarm is, needless to say, more like what the videos' creators had been aiming for, even if this specific video portrays threats that are more disturbingly odd and creepy than life-threatening (this fact possibly, Sheppard thinks, provides a valid reason for Jay's amusement; it would have been different had the scene been more serious but something such as, say, an entire team in the attire of ancient Roman legionaries, or painted with the Pegasus equivalent of woad, or covered in vines that might almost seem to be growing out of their flesh, makes it difficult to avoid amusement).

The theory that the creators of the videos had been working on suggested that any emotion verging on even a minimum of shock, awe or terror is far more likely to impress lessons learnt upon the memory. The creators, who continually insist on remaining anonymous, still believe their approach to be more effective than one that generates an air of mere intellectual interest or curiosity (and entertainment value is beside the point, especially for the later videos in the series).

On screen, Jay leans over to mutter something in Dalton's ear. Someone, Sheppard couldn't say for sure who, toggles the sound controls an instant too slow to pick up Jay's comment. Dalton's response, however, can be heard clearly if softly.

'Be quiet Jay,' the man says, not even looking at the recipient of his comment. 'Some of us are trying to watch.'

Jay makes a noise Sheppard can best describe only as a scoff. The term, Sheppard acknowledges mentally, leaves something to be desired, but does at least communicate the lack of regard that Jay apparently holds for Dalton's attempts to watch the video. On the other hand, the younger man does reseat himself in his chair and settle down to continue watching without further comment, derogatory or otherwise (further audible comment, anyway; he obviously and blatantly rolls his eyes).

Sheppard isn't sure as to whether this lack of extended protest is down to: a) the force of Dalton's personality, or alternatively that of his orders to Jay; b) Jay simply not caring enough to continue with that line of irritation, particularly when taking into account its minimal effect upon Dalton; or c) some previously-unknown vestige of sanity has reasserted itself, thereby minimising the amounts of sarcasm, snark and unreasonable courses of action present (either in the galaxy, the city, the seminar, or merely Sheppard's life; Sheppard doesn't know, isn't picky, but doesn't expect this to be the most likely option of the three). Sheppard also isn't entirely sure if he cares overmuch.

Nor, he realises, is he entirely sure of just how greatly the generalised background insanity of the Pegasus Galaxy, and the Stargate Programme as a whole, has affected his mental stability. Perhaps it is something he should attempt to get a handle on, after his life has calmed down a little (although, Sheppard knows, even should a period of relative calm occur he will assume it to be the harbinger of danger to come in the immediate future and will accordingly spend not a minute of his time either analysing his mental stability or allowing it to be analysed by others).

By the time this side-show has played out, Lorne has managed to arrive beside Sheppard. Lorne, thankfully, is widely acknowledged as a stabilising influence. He has managed to maintain his position as XO for a not inconsiderable length of time for a reason, after all.

'Sir?' Lorne asks Sheppard quietly.

Sheppard, not immediately answering, decides that Lorne's attempt to avoid distracting everyone else in the room is very probably an idea worthy of commendation. He therefore murmurs 'Outside,' to Lorne, copying the intent, because there is an entire roomful of people who will likely do their very best to multitask and eavesdrop on the recruits and the city's military commander simultaneously if Sheppard begins this conversation where he now stands.

They relocate to a few metres down the corridor outside, out of any line of sight of even a most determined eavesdropper. Teyla and Ronon remain inside, watching what some of Atlantis' people think to be of far better entertainment value than most reality television back on Earth (Sheppard is tempted to agree, although he would add that long-time residents also qualify as worthwhile fodder for entertainment purposes, something that new recruits usually realise themselves before long).

'Is something wrong?' Lorne asks, although Sheppard would swear he had managed to become proficient at disallowing his emotions to show on his face when he felt it necessary. Maybe it was one of Lorne's scarily-efficient-XO things.

Sheppard fields the perceptive remark with another question, however, not feeling ready to yet answer Lorne with a definitive statement. 'You've heard about our two most mysterious new recruits?'

The major relaxes a little, telling Sheppard that the answer is _yes_ before the man's mouth even opens to reply. 'Captain Greg Dalton and Jay no-last-name?' Lorne says questioningly, to confirm something he must already know to be true. 'Currently two of the most talked-about people in the whole city?' When Sheppard nods, Lorne continues 'Yes, I've heard about them.' After a moment, he adds 'So has everyone else. Was there something about them I should know, specifically?'

Sheppard shrugs expressively. 'Not as such,' he says, and he must sound especially gloomy, or something, because Lorne frowns at him in some form of worriment. 'You should probably keep in mind,' Sheppard clarifies, 'that there isn't exactly anything _to _know about them. Specifically or otherwise.'

He keeps his voice down, because eavesdroppers can be sneaky at times, and on Atlantis "at times" usually means "all the time". Hopefully people will be polite enough to forgo this opportunity for information-gathering (or that Ronon's gruffly threatening death glares will persuade them to do so), but Sheppard sends a hopefully superstitious thought in the vague direction of Atlantis anyway. Maybe the possibly-probably-but-we-have-no-conclusive-proof sentient city could ensure the safety of Sheppard's acknowledgment of knowing basically nothing when he really should know something. Sheppard usually liked to think so, anyway.

It is a little worrying, Sheppard thinks as Lorne digests this news, that the fact that he doesn't know anything (or, rather, doesn't know _much_) about two entirely new recruits, people he has never met before in his life, is causing him such a disruptive problem. It is also possibly evidence of Sheppard's paranoia, because after all there are undoubtedly very rational explanations as to why Sheppard has not been informed of the particulars of two recruits. He has never been victim to such worry before when not immediately knowledgeable of a newcomer's exact identity. Logical reasons must surely exist, but Sheppard, contradictorily for the sake of his peace of mind, chooses to ignore this evidence of paranoia. He has managed to convince himself of this when Lorne speaks up, following his commanding officer's lead and lowering his voice.

'But just in case, we want to know more about them,' Lorne guesses, glancing back almost involuntarily at the room they had just left, 'because we don't know anything about them. Yeah?'

'Yeah,' Sheppard confirms, similarly glancing in the direction of where the subjects of this discussion must now be sitting. 'So if you could keep an eye on them,' he starts, and then doesn't quite finish the sentence, instead trailing off and leaving the ending relatively open to interpretation, or open to the insertion of an appropriate conclusion at any rate.

'Yes, sir,' Lorne says. 'I'll see what I can find out.'

Sheppard pauses, and adds 'Unofficially.'

Lorne shrugs, and agrees readily to this minor alteration. Then asks hesitantly: 'Does Colonel Carter know?'

Sheppard doesn't answer immediately, not quite lost for words but quietly and inwardly frustrated that he had not earlier thought of an adequate response to this predictable question. 'Not officially,' he says, stalling for time.

Lorne watches Sheppard closely. 'And unofficially?' he asks, obviously feeling secure enough in his current position to interrogate a superior officer, however politely he may be doing so.

'Not quite unofficially either,' Sheppard admits, grimacing.

And to that, Lorne thankfully doesn't say anything accusatory. He does get a thoughtful expression, but that isn't too uncommon, and is usually actually to Sheppard's benefit, and so Sheppard doesn't count it as something new that he urgently needs to worry about. Also, he trusts Lorne to be loyal to Atlantis (because really, the extent to which some of his people are personally loyal occasionally scares him even if he will never admit it and however much he tries to ignore the whole matter) and to use his own judgement and initiative. And in this case, Sheppard is sure, the known facts support the decisions Sheppard has so far made.

'Alright, sir,' Lorne says, nodding with all the calm Sheppard has come to expect from him even in the strangest of crises. He flicks another glance in the direction of the seminar room, and then says 'I should get back to them. They'll have finished watching in a moment.'

Sheppard nods. 'Right.' He's about to say something about the impossibility of leaving new recruits alone for too long when a sudden outbreak of loud, hurried footsteps announce the arrival of another potential participant in their discussion.

McKay, it seems, has regained his ESP talents in time to locate his team, having conveniently waited until Sheppard had finished the main body of his conversation with Lorne. But then, convenient timing is probably more or less inherent in the nature of such ESP-esque abilities. And it may just have more to do with the fact that McKay obviously has information of some type to share and has therefore hunted his team down for that reason.

Lorne glances back at the paired rooms behind him as McKay approaches. With a murmured 'Sir,' he retreats to the smaller of the two, no doubt to watch for his cue to re-enter the other.

Meanwhile, Sheppard waits for McKay to reach him, ignoring that McKay apparently feels as though Sheppard could easily have walked to meet him part way. He tunes into McKay's words when the previously-absent scientist finally reaches him and winds up his mini-rant by saying a little huffily 'And where are Ronon and Teyla?'

Thankfully, any possible further hypocritical complaints regarding missing team members are cut short by the immediate appearance of said team members, who must have been alerted to the fact of McKay's presence by Lorne. McKay seems mollified by their rapid arrival.

Satisfied, he nods. And announces: 'We need to go talk to Caldwell.' He begins walking in what is presumably the direction of the said colonel, but then stops after only a few steps when he realises no one else is following him. They are choosing instead to stand still and frown at him quizzically (and why they can't just _trust_ his excellent judgement on these matters yet without explanation is beyond the scientist, for all his intelligence).

The expressions of the three manage to convey their questions quite adequately, but Sheppard, it seems, feels obliged to clarify a little. 'What? Caldwell?' he asks, and then appears to gather his sense to further clarify his thoughts with: 'Why are you saying this is urgent, again?'

'Because he's alone now,' McKay begins, deciding to humour them, 'so no interruptions-' and then he is rudely interrupted before he can actually _explain_ the answer to Sheppard's question.

'And you know this how?'

'Well,' McKay says, drawing the word out until he can be relatively sure he will be able to _finish_ this time. 'Sam was with him earlier, but then there was an explosion in the labs, so she needed to check on that – but that's not important now,' he finishes, cutting himself off this time before he becomes too side-tracked. Unfortunately, Sheppard manages to guess what might have been coming next anyway.

'Did you blow something up deliberately?' The question is far too suspicious.

McKay gives them all (because Teyla and Ronon look remarkably suspicious of him themselves, don't think he can't tell) one of his best affronted stares. As if he would stoop to blowing something up himself.

'He's on one of the balconies,' McKay says, ignoring the question altogether (hopefully his masterful grasp of facial expression will have answered it for him). 'Now come _on_.'

He turns his back and walks off ahead of them again. This time, they follow obediently in his wake. They are doubtless rolling their eyes, or at least Sheppard doubtless is, but McKay can live with that.

* * *

Lorne leans against the wall by the door, in the space Ronon and Teyla had left vacant when they had gone to join the other half of their team. A brief glance through the window behind him shows that SGA-1 have since vacated the corridor also. Wherever they had decided to disappear to, it's probably something aimed to further their current mission of digging up every scrap of knowledge possible regarding two new recruits. Put that way, Lorne thinks it sounds a little more suspicious than it is.

But even by pure, temporary observation of the two recruits in question, Lorne can tell that there is something strange about them. Irrespective of anything else, they have between them managed to disrupt the relatively-clear normal segregation of the recruits. This particular observation is true regardless of the fact that, in Lorne's mind at least, Jay holds himself as though he belongs in the military. But Jay isn't wearing a uniform of any sort. And Lorne doubts that even a young man as blatantly disrespectful of authority as Lorne already suspects Jay to be would, were he in the military, dare to entirely bypass the rules regarding the small matter of uniform. So he must be a civilian (or so, Lorne thinks, we are supposed to think him); but a civilian who has not yet been seen apart from an USAF captain, and looks perfectly at ease surrounded by a not inconsiderable number of scowling soldiers.

And this young man, apparently a civilian, is looking far too relaxed about this entire situation. It is, after all, highly unlikely that Jay (or for that matter, Dalton, who wouldn't be nearly so strange he if hadn't been accompanied by Jay) has ever before been a prime subject of gossip on a possibly-sentient alien city, in another galaxy, on what is the front line of a war to defend his own galaxy against practically-innumerable hordes of aliens capable of sucking his life out through their hands.

And even when he ignores all that pseudo-logic, Lorne can't ignore the nagging, gut-instinct feeling that something is not right – not with any of this, not with accepting Jay as who he says he is, or doesn't say he is, and – whatever Sheppard might tell him – there is something wrong with not telling Colonel Carter of their accumulated suspicions. Sheppard must have some reason to keep his (relatively unsubtle, so far) investigations from her, and to tell Lorne to do the same, but Lorne isn't quite sure what it might be.

He also isn't sure how, whatever reason Sheppard has, it can justify leaving the commander of the city out of the loop. Lorne knows Sheppard well enough to know that he must be annoyed that he doesn't know anything about these two (and while it might seem strange that Sheppard has fixated on these two specifically, Lorne thinks that in this case the intuition may well be proved correct); but surely Colonel Carter has that exact same right to know?

Lorne watches the screen, and the recruits it shows, and decides that he won't tell Carter what he is doing – it isn't an official order Sheppard has given him, after all, and nothing he wouldn't be doing anyway. But if she asks, he won't lie. And if he discovers something she needs to know, he will tell her.

On-screen, the images of the new recruits all simultaneously relax, sit in silence for a moment, and break into murmured conversation. Lorne pushes himself off the wall, and exits the room in favour of the one inhabited by the recruits. When he enters that room, they all fall gratifyingly silent and attentive (even Jay does, whom Lorne can just hear saying something that sounds like "naked white aliens, with a creepy relationship to-", before he abandons the sentence in favour of watching Lorne with a slightly disturbing curiosity that reminds Lorne of how the scientists can look, watching a valued and volatile experiment).

Lorne can, by this time, rattle off his usual spiel to the recruits, emphasising the importance of preparation for all manner of the weird and the dangerous and the more common alternative of both mixed together, without even needing to concentrate on its content. As he does so, he can't help but have his eyes drift inexorably to Jay. Jay is, it transpires, still slouched in his chair, utterly relaxed, looking not wary in the least but now openly grinning at Lorne.

Lorne's next words come out a little more harshly (with the side-effect of causing a handful of civilian recruits in the front row to sit even straighter), and he thinks that it will, by the time it comes to it, be something of a relief to spill his own accumulated worries to Colonel Carter. Lorne's known Colonel Carter longer than Sheppard has (longer than he's known Sheppard, too); he knows she can be trusted. Among other things, Lorne thinks slightly ruefully, Colonel Carter can probably also be trusted to catch on to the fact that her subordinate officers are hiding something from her.

And for another spilling-his-worries benefit, Colonel Carter does generally seem a lot calmer about such worrying matters as infiltrators and spies than Sheppard often does. This is likely because of the advantage of much experience. And however long Sheppard has been the firmly ensconced military commander of Atlantis, Carter had been on SG-1 for longer. And that, to Lorne, still counts for something.

**_end part seven_**


	8. Part 8

**_Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises._**

**A/N: yeah, okay, it took even longer than usual...and this appears to be more filler. but on the bright side, part of the reason it took this long is because my brain decided to write something that actually fits in later on in this fic. Which might actually mean this whatever-it-is is gaining some semblance of plot. Yes, it surprised me too. But, you know, no promises, cos if I make any they'll never be fulfilled.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Eight**_

The mysterious explosion that had called Colonel Carter away from her conversation with Caldwell had transpired, once Carter had arrived at the site of the incident, to be absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Insofar as an explosion _could_ be ordinary, that is, anyway. But no lives had been at risk in this case, and even the experimental data itself hadn't been unduly harmed. This fact, appreciated though it is, does raise some questions.

The scientists have long ago grown able to recognise the potential of certain experiments to explode or otherwise go awry, and to develop suitably swift reactions when these explosions (not all of which are expected) do occur. They also manage to categorise, sometimes in a matter of vital milliseconds, their level of danger on a scale reaching from "a brief flurry of sparks", to "most definitely eyebrow-threatening to any in range", all the way up to "severe property damage if not properly contained, and ditto bodily harm to anyone incredibly foolish enough to be standing in the blast radius of an experiment designated as of extreme potential danger". This last rating, inevitably, had been coined by Atlantis' very own Doctor Rodney McKay, and Carter has enough faith in the scientists to trust that no higher classification rating will be needed.

Today's accident had been both over and thoroughly cleaned up by the time of Carter's arrival on the scene. Her presence at the pseudo-emergency had been entirely unnecessary. And yet, for some reason, she had been requested to come. Carter suspects that, sooner or later, the answer will make itself clear. She also suspects that, when that clarity does appear, it will directly relate to the murmured rumours making their rounds, and the fairly unsubtle scheming that nearly everyone in the city is currently participating in. Strangely enough, Sheppard and his team are at the forefront of that scheming; and within that select group exists a scientist who is both appropriately feared by his cohort to be obeyed in matters of explosions, and is enough used to flouting authority to not care (or possibly to care less) when that authority is Sam Carter.

She is therefore perfectly able to ignore that matter for the time being. Instead, she has to turn her attention to the matter of: what should she do now? The sensible answer is of course to return to her office and attempt to finish the mounting piles of paperwork (Carter would suggest that possibly they spawn, having become infected by alien _something_ and become sentient, multiplying when her back is turned, but she thinks that she wouldn't be taken entirely seriously; the worse alternative of such a theory-sharing scenario would be the chance that no one would _disbelieve_ her, as such).

The sensible answer holds increasingly little worth in her life. What she _wants_ to do, paying no attention to what she _should _do, is discover how the seminars are progressing. This is obviously, and Carter doesn't try to deny it to herself, born out of some kind of morbid curiosity. It will also, should she carry through with this urge (and she thinks she will), require some planning, or at least some serviceable time management skills.

There are reasons for this. Carter may well want to see how quickly Jay can turn someone's day into an utter train wreck (and even if the ethical, moral part of Carter hopes that he doesn't, the cynical portion doesn't believe that anyone could easily persuade O'Neill not to do so if he has made up his mind). And there may be some odd urge, possibly hailing from somewhere in her gut, to just watch O'Neill. Carter is going to do her level best to ignore any evidence of where that urge may originate, because she thinks she may not wish to know. She isn't going to dwell on it. But _even if she did, _wouldn't be all _that_ out of the ordinary, because she hasn't seen either O'Neill for some time now, and they were...and then Carter comes to her senses to block off that train off thought, which looks to be well on its way to transforming into one of those train wrecks her hindbrain appears so eager to witness.

But all strange urges aside, it wouldn't really do to act on them, and then for the city's commander to be caught skulking around its corridors as a result, waiting to see what might happen. Lurking in wait rarely works as is intended, in Carter's unfortunately lengthy experience of the practice.

Then again, Carter reminds herself, possibly trying to gain at least _some_ flimsy justification to avoid having to do actual work for a while longer (and, really, making sure no one is destroying Atlantis or its residents, physically or mentally or otherwise, counts as work, doesn't it?), surely she has every right to simply go along with the rest of the city and watch the live tapes of the seminars. If anything, her position would perhaps lend her more of a right to watch them, and not less; or so Carter would like to think (if only so it would become easier to squeeze viewings of the recordings out of the anthropologists).

So really, all she needs to do now to fulfil her curiosity and satisfy her innate urges to watch train wrecks in progress, is insinuate her way into a room which is probably already packed full to bursting with inquisitive personnel. And these would of course be inquisitive personnel who have set up an extremely effective grapevine (not that Carter discourages their achievements; she has eagerly participated in such efforts before herself).

And, to harp back to an earlier point, Carter does actually have something of a reputation to maintain, here. There are some rumours that would quite clearly be unhelpful to have spread around the city at the speed of light (or very likely faster than that, because the human race has, after all, discovered the wonder that is the hyperdrive). But of course the solution to those rumours, however fast they may spread, is to avoid their creation (and her reputation will be saved, Carter internally carols, and then wonders if perhaps she has had a little too much caffeine to drink).

And to avoid the rumours' creation, Carter merely needs to accurately predict when the collection of instructional videos will have come to an end, and arrive at that time. And so did she really need that entire lengthy mental ramble to give herself an adequate justification to tag along to (she just stops herself from thinking "watch train wrecks in progress") oversee the progress of her new recruits?

Apparently she had. And apparently she has also now stalled approximately long enough that, if she leaves now and takes a slightly circuitous route to her destination, Carter can quite possibly reach the seminar-slash-lecture-theatre-room in perfect time to watch Lorne and the recruits (and doubtless a number of interested bystanders with them) depart for the firing range, for the next planned stage of their assimilation into the Pegasus Galaxy.

She should even be able to avoid any suspicious loitering in corridors. Carter simply isn't sure if the fact that these plans have so easily fallen into place should be a sign of impending insanity (she hopes not).

* * *

It is the very comfortable familiarity of the miniaturised lecture theatre, Dalton thinks (having something of an epiphany in the midst of yet another instructional video), that makes it disconcerting. If his surroundings (his immediate surroundings that is; the less-immediate are more difficult to easily alter and for the purposes of this argument don't need to be changed) were as strange as the information being fed him, the contrast would be less distracting.

And, alright, possibly he should be used to such surprises by now, but "aliens exist" had been a significant step even without the immediate addition of "your next posting will be Atlantis, which is by the way in another galaxy". "Soul-sucking space vampires", to steal a phrase, are still something of a shock to the mental processes, even if he can hide the fact quite capably.

In the meantime, however, and until his hindbrain stops reminding him that _this can't possibly be real_, as he is sure it will in time, Dalton's going to watch this disturbingly informative video, and listen to any advice and intel he can scavenge. He should then, he judges, be able to convince his mind to wrap itself around the situation in which he now finds himself. And then of course, because he has learnt _something_ from his enforced trailing around after Jay, he will do so just in time to be blindsided by the next lump sum of impossible knowledge presented to him.

Dalton plucks the completed paper aeroplane from Jay's hands before it can be thrown anywhere bound to get him in trouble from _someone_. Jay merely immediately appropriates more paper from the same unfortunate soul on his other side from whom he had stolen the _last_ five and three quarter sheets of paper, and starts carefully folding anew. As he does so, he can't help but think that maybe this matter of consistently appearing surprises is not as bad as all that. And whatever surprises arrive next they will be nothing he won't be able to work around in order to carry out his assigned duties – provided of course that he can keep a close eye on Jay's antics.

Captain Greg Dalton settles down to watch the video and wonders vaguely, not for the first time, just why, exactly, the person whom he had been assigned to watch can take in his stride the messy workings of both the criminal and the governmental underworlds (not to mention, apparently, the whole alien thing), and yet still acts like a belligerent and rebellious teenager. This question is generally the first to pass through his mind whenever he has a spare moment, or when the contrast between appearance-and-reality-and-personality-and-knowledge becomes especially annoying or distracting or disturbing. The second question that runs through Dalton's head on an ever-increasing basis is, obviously, _why me_?

He's beginning to realise he may never have an answer to the latter query (and despite its frequency, he is also beginning to realise he may not particularly care, either). The former, however, Dalton is determined he will one day be capable of answering. Well; he will one day be capable of answering to some extent, anyway; upon which point, in accordance with the unwritten laws of the universe, there will undoubtedly appear some new evidence to contradict – or further complicate – his conclusions.

But at least life will never be boring.

Dalton relocates the latest paper aeroplane to underneath his seat out of Jay's reach.

* * *

Carter's rough and ready calculations, it transpires, have been absolutely correct. She would probably be more proud about this if the calculations in question hadn't been of such trivial insignificance. But regardless, she arrives at her destination just as the recruits are filing out of the room, therefore avoiding the need to wait around for them to do so.

Strangely, it appears as though Jay's antics have thus far been nothing that hadn't been able to be safely side-tracked by Captain Dalton. The new recruits aren't acting more strangely than is usual after these sessions. The regular personnel in the next room look mostly normal as well. No one seems to have been subjected to a large dose of O'Neill-brand insanity just yet (and Carter would like to think herself qualified at spotting these things).

Carter's suspicious hind-brain suggests to her that this is possibly because Jay is planning something else that he can spring on them all at some opportune moment. Well; what will be an opportune moment to him, anyway. To Carter, it will likely be the moment at which maximum humiliation to one of her people can be caused, or the moment Jay deems to have the greatest effect on the greatest amount of people (and this will probably be because he finds it fun, and for no other readily apparent reason; Carter can't quite bring herself to disagree, even if she needs to set an example and disapprove).

Lorne doesn't even look particularly frazzled at all, as he stands waiting for the new recruits to file out of the room. But his ability to come out of extraordinary situations still un-frazzled _is_ one of his greatest talents. From the look of him, Captain Dalton very possibly possesses the exact same quality. It had probably been why he had been chosen as Jay's primary parole officer in the first place, that almost preternatural calm that Carter has been able to sense even after the scant few hours she has known him.

Carter copies Lorne, standing and waiting for the steadily rushing stream of men and women to flow past her on their way to the firing range. Once they've all started on their way, she plans to follow behind them, maybe get Lorne to catch her up on how the day has gone so far. Maybe she can even indulge in some hopefully undetected eavesdropping.

Instead, Jay drops out of the crowd for a brief instant to greet her. Carter gets distracted, greets Jay and Dalton back just in time for Jay to decide to re-join his fellow recruits and start working his way up-stream to the front. Dalton grimaces for a split-second and follows. Carter falls into step beside Major Lorne (as she had originally planned), and at his bemused glance looks down at her hand.

And for some reason she's holding a paper aeroplane. Sighing quietly, Carter thinks she knows exactly who she should blame for that. She is also quite sure she would like to know how Jay had managed to create a miniature F-16 from paper partially covered in someone else's writing, but that's probably less relevant. She gives Lorne's questioning lift of the eyebrows a resigned shrug, which he receives with perfect equilibrium.

Well. She hadn't expected anything less from him. Atlantis, after all, needs someone to be calm. Carter has a feeling that, thankfully, it may not be her; staying perpetually calm in the face of danger seems like too much hard work on occasion. And despite all her good intentions about ignoring the problem of Jay, it does look like she is a little too involved for her own good.

But she'll probably find that out later.

**-end part eight-**


	9. Part 9

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, again. Real life is unfortunately catching up to me. Also, I had planned to finish the firing range bit in this part, but no. Caldwell interrupted, and McKay is being irritating by refusing to spill the beans about...never mind. About something as yet unmentioned. Anyway. **

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Nine**_

Caldwell had originally thought, while caught in the midst of what he now knows to have been an idealistic fit of optimism, he could stand outside on one of Atlantis' many balconies, watch the ocean, and be allowed to do so, most importantly, in _peace_. But if he doesn't want interruptions he has clearly chosen the wrong line of work.

Most days, he does not regret his decision (the days when none of his people die, or when his planet isn't in greater-than-usual danger, or when they beat the odds and win). Today (and all those days Caldwell tries not to think about, days of fire and pain and explosions and not being able to control his own actions), or rather this specific moment, is not one of those times when he welcomes interruptions, or merely doesn't actively oppose them. But this galaxy has chosen to give him the experience anyway.

The situation is not improved by the identities of the interrupters, and not by their quantity (really, Caldwell thinks a little disgustedly, not quite bothering to hide the emotion, did their _entire team_ really need to come?). Because there they are all four of them standing; Sheppard and McKay out in front, Teyla politely lingering by the balcony door, and Ronon looming by the threshold. And Caldwell, even ignoring the fact that they had interrupted him, is not in the mood for a conversation with them.

Commiserating with Colonel Carter had been one thing. To do so with Sheppard would be quite another. Sheppard appears to have a slightly different opinion on the matter.

'Colonel Caldwell?' the man says, no doubt out of politeness, which might be something if Caldwell isn't cynical enough to diagnose it as an attempt to be listened to and get his way.

Caldwell sighs aloud, but it – as expected – isn't enough to drive the four away. He turns to face them fully, leaning back against the balcony rail.

'Yes?'

* * *

A new soldier has taken over the duty of lecturing the mass of Dalton's fellow new recruits, leaving Major Lorne to watch carefully from the sidelines. Lorne's replacement is getting varying results (perhaps he needs a motivational video, Dalton can't help but think, unruly thoughts getting away from him a little) from his captive audience, however necessary the information may or may not be. Not everyone is listening.

But Dalton knows how to fire a gun, how to behave in a firing range, along with the entirety of the military contingent present (or so he trusts), and this fact leaves him free to listen with one ear (because he does try to be conscientious, or at least polite), while focusing most of his attention on his assigned charge. Jay isn't paying any more attention to the lecture than Dalton is, but Dalton isn't quite sure just to what the teenager _is_ paying attention. Jay looks remarkably absentminded, staring blankly at nothing in particular, a state of affairs to which Dalton doesn't think he is quite used.

But on the other hand, the teenager doesn't need to listen to the lecture any more than Dalton himself does, and possibly less so than even some of the military recruits. Dalton's had the proof of that before. Jay is at least as good with a gun as Dalton himself is, a fact that has since their introduction been variously comforting, creepy, and a source of moral outrage. The latter emotion has been present in Dalton's mind ever since he first suspected the extent of what the Governmental Powers That Be use the teenager for, but it exists on Dalton's part only; he doubts Jay finds the situation especially morally outrageous at all (although, as very nearly always, Dalton isn't entirely sure what Jay thinks of it).

But right now, all that whatever weapons expertise they may each possess means is that they are each free to mostly ignore the instructor (or, in Jay's case, completely ignore the man). Unfortunately, in his own mind at least, Dalton finds it a little more difficult to ignore the accumulated gazes of the growing crowd of spectators, particularly when armed with the certain knowledge that they _will_ be watching him, if at least (small mercies) not as much as they will be watching Jay. He attempts to ignore them regardless, with some measure of success (hopefully, from the outside, it looks to be something more than merely a measure).

There is a brief moment when Dalton wonders just how he managed to get here – here, in another galaxy, resident of an alien city that Jay has assured him (not at all comfortingly) is sentient – and why the Governmental Powers That Be had placed him in this position, parole officer to a teenager. He cannot come up with an answer to the latter question that is anything more than a vague resentment of the government, and his superiors, the universe in general, and regularly also Jay.

Thankfully, there is an interruption before Dalton can become any further absorbed in feelings of unreality of the _what am I doing here_ nature. The man lecturing about the need for every member of the Atlantis Expedition to be capable of handling a gun is winding down, and Dalton can only be grateful for it. The subsequent instructions of the soldier – whose name Dalton didn't manage to catch, drowned out as it had been by a spate of disgruntled comments on the military mindset by a portion of the civilian contingent – are basic, nothing unexpected, but Dalton is more than able to cope with normalities like this.

Jay has a little more trouble with the concept of "normal". But the order for the crowd of recruits to separate themselves into the category of civilian or military isn't something he can twist to find a way to make trouble. Dalton should be grateful. The fact that he _isn't_ says something about the effect Jay may or may not be having on him, to make him crave disruption of normality.

Dalton consoles himself with the thought that while Jay left normality behind long ago, and Dalton himself seems in hindsight to have been forcibly removed from it, the rest of the universe will undoubtedly catch up soon. It probably isn't nice of him, to wish chaos on the people around him, but it would happen anyway, he thinks, and shuffles slowly into line with the military recruits.

* * *

Caldwell isn't sure what he had been expecting to be the cause of this unwished-for visit. In hindsight, he perhaps should have known. It would seem that Jay is managing to attract just as much attention in Atlantis as he had on the _Daedalus_ (so much so that Caldwell suspects it to be attention that is far from unwelcome). In a sudden fit of minor mean-spiritedness, Caldwell hopes that Jay also manages to create, or possibly even merely attract, similarly equal amounts of trouble and the inevitably accompanying chaos.

He thinks better of that thought nearly immediately, because Colonel Carter doesn't deserve any extra heapings of misfortune on her plate (simply needing to keep Jay – or any O'Neill – out of trouble is curse severe enough, even if Carter does have more experience with the dilemma than Caldwell). But no jinx on Caldwell's part, he privately believes, could ever be great enough to increase Atlantis' uncanny abilities of trouble-magnetism by any visible or significant degree. Any living organism that has passed through Stargate Command at any point in their lifespan can generally round up more than enough chaos without even trying very hard.

But in any case, whatever trouble may or may not result, it won't be Caldwell's fault. Or at least it won't be Caldwell's fault to a degree any greater than everyone one else can also be blamed. Caldwell, of course, is himself a living organism who has passed through Stargate Command at several points in his lifespan. The trouble-attraction-theory applies equally.

Sheppard is beginning to appear distinctly disgruntled by this stage in Caldwell's silent and slightly side-tracked ruminations, but not more so than Caldwell is currently feeling. The other man had brought it upon himself. He has no need to press for this information, and he certainly has no need to press Caldwell for it when he is trying for a period of calm.

And anyway, Caldwell isn't being deliberately unhelpful, or at least is not merely being so out of petty irritation; that would be unprofessional. He is in fact doing the opposite. Staying out of the apparent complexities of the chain of command in Atlantis, refusing to become complicit in any disruption of that chain of command, is being very much professional. His personal opinion may of course be in agreement with the course of action demanded by such justifiable professionalism, but that is beside the point.

Caldwell has, quite simply, no right to inform Colonel Carter's people of information she has evidently decided it is better that they not know. In the same manner, Colonel Carter has the right to know that her people are questioning what she has chosen to tell them, or not tell them, as the case may be.

Caldwell, personally, thinks that Sheppard and company are either overreacting or simply unused to the regular way of life in the military. Telling them as much could likely be classified "unprofessional". He does so anyway.

Sheppard doesn't look pleased at this observation, but it's McKay who responds with a vigorous defence of their curiosity. 'Overreaction?' he starts.

Caldwell nearly groans, recognising this as the beginnings of a loud, awfully drawn-out rant (and he wonders, just for a moment, if the team are working together on this as everything else, letting the acidly harsh, but more importantly the _civilian_ scientist say what they are all thinking; he cuts the thought off, because of course they are). And McKay is, among other qualities, very practised at rants peppered liberally with snide insults of his target's intelligence.

'Hardly!' the scientist continues. 'There are not one but _two _men in _our city_ that we know nothing about, two men who have absolutely _no_ legitimate reason to be here. They could be anyone, planning to do _anything_, and no one seems to be farsighted enough to enlighten us.' McKay pauses, but only to draw breath enough to continue.

Caldwell refuses to give in to the verbal berating that is sure to follow, and decides to cut McKay off before anyone else is influenced to believe that lecturing him is a valid option. 'You might do well to consider that this_ is_ still a military expedition. Arbitrary suspicions based on, from what I can hear, little evidence, can_not_ deport someone. Every person in this city has been vetted, and every person is undoubtedly here for a reason. Simply because I am not personally at liberty to discuss those reasons, no matter to whom they pertain, does _not_ mean they don't exist.' Caldwell pauses, and decides to add a final word of what he might, on balance, consider to be comfort; he isn't positive how the people now standing in front of him will take it. 'General O'Neill isn't about to let any of his people be endangered if he can prevent it.'

Sheppard looks politely blank at that, and Caldwell isn't sure if the man – who has actually _met_ O'Neill, and had been recruited by him, or so he understands – has received the message. The message in question is, of course, that obviously Jay, while an utter hindrance, is not in reality about to deliberately sabotage anything. But while three-quarters of the team make no visible reaction – either to the bulk of Caldwell's small speech or to his final comment – McKay looks worryingly as though he has found inspiration. Inspiration as to what, Caldwell isn't sure, but he thinks it might be better to remove himself from the scientist's near vicinity, just in case. He has no desire to avoid further questions, and doubts that, for their part, SGA-1 would care to listen to his increasingly blunt rejections of their interrogatory queries.

Colonel Caldwell stands up properly, steps away from the balcony railing, and swiftly makes his farewells (he _does_ make farewells, plural, because he had been raised to be polite to ladies, and it would be hard to reasonably explain saying goodbye to Ms Emmagan while ignoring her male companions). He leaves the four teammates no time to respond, and no time to prevent him leaving.

His not-retreat is carried out with as much speed as he can muster and still leave his dignity intact (because a colonel simply _can't_ run away from these situations, and so Caldwell therefore isn't running). The team he leaves behind him won't be happy, but whatever conclusions they draw – even if it is merely that he's an unfeeling bastard, or whatever epithets McKay is inspired to create – will largely become a moot point (or so he trusts).

And anyway; Caldwell only needs to avoid them until the next morning, and the scheduled departure of the _Daedalus_. He should be able to manage that much.

**_end part nine_**


	10. Part 10

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Okay, next part, slightly longer than usual...also, I'll probably be more or less incommunicado for the next month and a bit, due to real life being unfortunately hectic and an accompanying extreme and pressing need to study. Sorry.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Ten**_

Carter had only been half-listening to Sergeant Bartlett, and she suspects that she is far from alone in that respect. Although she might well be the only person absently clutching a paper aeroplane as she leans against a wall and ignores the lecture, it's probably best not to look too deeply into that particular question. Just in case she comes up with some strange answers, because she certainly has in the past.

But her attention had been suitably regained when the lecture had ended, and the assembly ordered into two groups. Or rather, it had caught her attention when Jay had, quietly and without any fuss or drawing any particular attention to himself (that is, he hadn't been doing anything to deliberately draw attention), separated himself from Dalton and moved to join the sprawling crowd of civilians. When she thinks about it, now, watching the last few instructions be given out and everyone milling around giving off a fair impression of aimlessness, it is of course a reasonable (almost obvious, in fact) conclusion to draw, that Jay would now be classified as a civilian. Or that he would willingly admit to being one.

But whatever he is to the government, or to the military (and she needs to find that out, Carter reminds herself), Jay's existence, or at least the particulars of it, is far from an open secret. He can't simply announce himself to be in the military. For all she knows, he isn't, officially. It is only that she can't stop herself, instinctively, from linking _O'Neill_ in her mind with _military_, and _CO_, and _SG-1_ (and other things she tries not to think about too often, too much, from force of long habit). And so in the back of her mind, subconsciously, she had been expecting Jay to file into the (far more orderly) line of soldiers.

Except he lined up with the scientists, and the linguists, and the anthropologists, so she has spent the past minute turning her mind in knots trying to be self-reflexive (Carter never has much liked psychoanalysis). And in the end it doesn't matter much. As long as she can get some answers out of him, it will stop her worrying, or at least to such a degree.

Carter wilfully and deliberately ignores that it may well be none of her business anyway; even if Jay had wanted to avoid her, and with her any reminder of his (his? O'Neill's?) old life, he has turned up under her nose and he can't expect her to ignore him. And he can't expect her not to poke her nose in, even if she does try her best to interfere politely.

She shifts impatiently from one foot to another, switches the paper plane from one hand to another (briefly wondering why she is still holding it), and tries to turn her mind off for a minute. Or at least get it away from that subject and pay attention to events around her. With that objective, Carter begins again to watch the ongoing proceedings.

The two lines are not to be tested simultaneously, presumably to allow the civilians a last fleeting glimpse of how to correctly behave. Few of the civilians are watching the soldiers divide themselves into a number of smaller lines, ready to be allocated weapons and enter whichever firing booth their row has been given (although the civilians' state of disorganisation is, Carter believes, because they enjoy showing that _we don't have to be military-style organised and obey every single order, no matter how stupid_, more than any inherent inability to concentrate). Carter is, therefore, unsure if the procedure is entirely worth it, but it had been developed long before she had arrived at Atlantis. It is unlikely that anyone (and she's thinking mainly of Sheppard, here, but doesn't exclude, well, the entire rest of the city's population) would wish to change the tradition.

Worth its while or not, this tradition (and of course "tradition" is merely something that happens three times or more) gives the civilians ample time to congregate into assorted groups, and combine gossip with a vague Brownian motion that allows for the greatest yield of rumour-sharing. It also gives Jay all the latitude he needs to find his way through the crowd and insinuate himself into the empty space beside Carter. She deliberately doesn't show any surprise.

'You came to watch,' Jay says, sounding pleased (Carter chooses to take the emotion as genuine).

'Someone has to keep you away from trouble,' she replies.

'That's what Dalton's for,' he tells her.

'He's occupied. And I seem to recall you mentioning that you had _two _parole officers.'

He rolls his eyes, and says comfortably 'Whatever.'

Not talking, they watch the first of the soldiers begin shooting, the noise of the gunshots faded almost into nonexistence by some Ancient trick of advanced acoustics. But with the conversation around them, they aren't standing in silence, and Carter decides to chance the possibility of their conversation being overheard.

'Why are you here?' she says, starting with the question she has asked before, because persistence will eventually win through Jay's walls of determined misdirection (and the question is only somewhere to begin, and she is planning that the misdirection will_ this_ time lead in the direction she wants).

Jay doesn't say anything initially. This is possibly because the first time he opens his mouth to reply Carter glares at him, silently and effectively warning him not to be so unoriginal as to repeat his earlier trust-issues-and-death-threats-but-really-it's-nothing-you-need-to-worry-about non-answer.

Then he shrugs, and says 'Orders.'

It's a simple enough reason that Carter thinks it is probably exactly the truth, however much detail is being omitted. It is Carter, this time, who takes her time to formulate a response.

'You're officially a civilian, now,' Carter says, starting with a known fact. 'But you still get given a lot of orders,' she suggests (and she hates talking in circles like this, neither of them saying what they mean, but it's necessary, if they want to breach the subject, and in public at that; and they understand what each other means anyway).

'Not the sort of orders they'd let me talk about,' he says bluntly (warning her off, maybe, but she knows his meaning already and won't be deterred). 'Not the sort of orders most people would care to obey.' He grimaces, and repeats a phrase Carter has heard before, a long time ago. 'Damn distasteful things.' He stops.

'So why obey?' Carter says, after a long pause, trying to find the phrasing to correctly express her meaning. 'If you just – just left,' she continues, stumbling over the words, 'then surely there would only be so much that could be done about it. It _is_ technically illegal, so they couldn't exactly complain about it,' she finishes, feeling she must have left out most of her argument, or her logic, or possibly her mind. She deliberately hasn't bothered, however, to add "if you planned it properly", because if O'Neill ever decides to abandon his current line of work, he will not be sloppy about it.

'I thought about it,' he says, tone careful, refraining to mention _what_ he had thought about it (although Carter can guess).

'And?' she prompts after a moment of silence.

Jay's mouth twists bitterly as he replies 'I'm here, aren't I?'

'Yes,' she agrees. 'You are. And how do you find it so far?'

'Not so bad,' he says slowly, considering. The corners of his mouth curl up, just a little. 'Not so bad.'

And in her quest for an authentic reaction, that isn't a bad result, Carter thinks. She studies his expression a moment longer, and then frowns when his eyes focus on something in front of them, and his grin widens. Still genuine, but this is amusement, Carter knows. She follows his gaze to where a minor commotion is beginning to be heard above the general chatter.

One of the soldiers, heading up his row, isn't moving forward. Or rather, Carter sees as she looks closer, he is attempting it but has found himself inexplicably unable to pass the threshold of the firing booth. Carter squints at the empty air preventing the man's access (part of her mind wondering if she needs to intervene and, if so, what she could possibly do about it), and sees from the corner of her eye the shimmer that proclaims the air to be not empty, but containing one of Atlantis' patented forcefields (actually, she hopes that no one _has_ patented them).

Carter looks back at O'Neill, in time to see his grin fade into something closely resembling a self-satisfied smirk. Catching Carter's eyes on him, he blinks, looking innocent (or relatively innocent, anyway). And whatever forcefield had taken an irrational dislike to the soldier vanishes.

Apparently, Carter had been more than correct when she had guessed earlier that O'Neill has managed to sweet-talk Atlantis. She doesn't want to know how he did so, possibly because she doesn't really want to know just how literal (and, therefore, potentially disturbing) a comparison "sweet-talk" might be; the degree of sentience Atlantis has displayed in the past has never quite been substantial enough to prove the matter beyond reasonable doubt, but more than enough to raise it.

The antics displayed in this case (whether by Atlantis or O'Neill, either) have been mitigated solely by the fact that there are weapons involved, Carter is sure, and that if something were to go wrong it would go _badly_ wrong. She hates to think what other strange accidental trivial irritants are going to infect the city in the near future. By his instinctual backwards glance at Jay, from his place amidst a sea of Marines, Dalton feels exactly the same.

'Stop playing with Atlantis,' Carter murmurs to Jay, quietly enough so none of the bystanders can hear her.

He shoots her a wounded look, and exclaims, sotto voce, '_Carter_!' His injured tone is made less believable by his swiftly returning grinning amusement.

'I mean it,' Carter says firmly. 'No fooling around with any artificial intelligences unless I specifically say otherwise.'

She thinks she might just hear a murmur of 'Is _that_ what they call it these days?' But Jay makes no other objection, so she feels she can let the questionable comment (questionable in each tone, taste and logic) pass.

They lapse into silence. After two more rows of soldiers have completed their turns in the firing booths, Carter has heard nothing more from Jay, and there have been no more unruly forcefields. She carefully doesn't look over at him, for it might encourage him to further acts of restless boredom. This is perhaps a mistake, as it means she doesn't catch on to Jay's latest idea until she sees a paper plane sail over the crowd.

Carter frowns, getting a sinking feeling in her stomach, and, just in case, double-checks that she is still holding her own paper plane. She is. She turns her head to see Jay, his hands busily folding another paper missile, someone's stolen pad of paper wedged between him and the wall he is leaning on.

She just stares at him for a moment. Baby-sitting had never really been her thing, and baby-sitting a rebellious teenager who had been her superior, in another life, really, _really_ isn't her thing. And then Carter reaches over and tugs the pad towards her. The movement ends with the pad of paper safely in Carter's hands, and Jay, unexpectedly dislodged from the wall, just managing to recover his equilibrium without falling over.

'Oy,' he grumbles under his breath, sending a disapproving glance Carter's way.

She frowns back at him. 'Stop it.'

Jay makes a face, and throws his now-completed paper plane over the crowd in petty retaliation.

'You're not getting any more paper,' she tells him.

He mutters something she can't make out, and then says 'Fine.'

She nods approvingly. 'Good.'

'Don't _patronise_ me,' Jay says, irritated (and, evidently, she's managed to hit a nerve, flying blind like this).

'Stop acting even younger than you look,' she returns, outwardly calm, 'and I'll stop treating you like it.'

He glares at her (and, she admits privately, even that last comment had had a tinge of patronisation about it), and doesn't otherwise respond.

Carter drums her fingers on the pad of paper, makes up her mind that_ no_, she will not be giving it back however guilty she's feeling, and then forcibly stills her fingers. This would be so much easier if she only knew _how_ he wanted her to treat him. He isn't a child, and she does know that, but even when he had been Colonel O'Neill he had acted childish, and she had put miles of patronisation into her deadpan "Sir," back then.

And now he looks young, and deliberately acts it, and snaps at her when she responds as she instinctually would. Carter doesn't want to try to decipher whatever thoughts are running through his mind (or hers, for that matter, but ignoring her own thoughts is easier by far because she has had plenty of practice).

She stares out over the crowd, and realises that she has missed watching Captain Dalton shoot when she spots him exiting a firing booth, along with the last of the lines of military recruits. But by the reactions and the body language of the men standing around him, she thinks he has probably displayed some exemplary skills (probably; she can find out later if this is true, a benefit of actually being in charge and not simply holding some vague hero-status that had been mildly erratic in the process of gaining results to which she wasn't entitled).

It is after a few minutes of silent contemplation of the myriad problems of communication that Carter realises that, earlier, Jay had only replied to half of one of her statements.

'_Are_ you a civilian?' she asks him quietly.

He looks at her, startled out of sulky silence, and she can see the bitterness lurking in his eyes (and, yes, she thinks; she had missed a trick earlier, there).

'I haven't been _permitted_ to enlist,' he says quietly, the low volume not detracting from the venom in his voice. 'Apparently it would only get in the way, and create paperwork that would force them to admit I exist. So, yes, I'm a civilian. But because they like to have it both ways, I'm a civilian who has to obey orders without question.'

For a moment the only thing Carter can think, repeating herself yet again, is: _so why haven't you just __**left**_? But that would probably be too much prying for one day. She can leave it for tomorrow. Getting straight answers out of O'Neill will take longer than she has (and, she knows, possibly will take longer than anyone has), and he has probably left bits out of even his last honest answer (but he will have left them out for a reason, even if the reason is nothing more than _he is a very private person_).

And then Captain Dalton arrives, having navigated through the crowd to find his charge, and it is too late for Carter to ask. She still hasn't she realises, found out how much of Jay's story Dalton knows (but she will, although she may need to ask Dalton himself, given the way her conversations with Jay have been going, one step forward and two back).

'Ma'am,' Dalton says, nodding to her, before saying to Jay, 'I think it's your turn,' motioning back over his shoulder to the firing booths.

Sure enough, the latest line of civilians has a hole in it, and no one is looking pleased at the hold up.

'I'd wish you luck,' Carter starts, 'but somehow I doubt you'll need it.'

Jay grins at her for that, bright and genuine, his eyes alight.

She smiles in return, and watches as Jay practically swaggers over to take up his position amongst the rest of his row of scientists. Looking around her, it seems that the crowd has swelled exponentially in the last few minutes. Carter doesn't have to guess why, and Dalton doesn't seem to be paying it any attention, standing beside her and watching Jay with a concentration equal to every other bystander (although Dalton does actually have orders to be doing so).

In the end, as Carter could have predicted had anyone asked her, the event that so many inquisitive people have gathered to witness proves to be anticlimactic in its rapidity. Jay listens attentively to the soldier instructing him on the correct procedure, although not attentively enough to be accused of some subtle mockery (even if Carter is moderately convinced that Jay _is_ mocking the man, quietly). The soldier removes himself, allowing Jay access to the standard 9mm with which civilians are mandated to become proficient.

Jay picks up the weapon and, although Carter can't see clearly from her position on the crowd's outskirts, she knows what he is doing; going quickly and smoothly through the motions he could complete in his sleep. The crowd mutters to itself in interest; from an unknown young man, Jay has in little more than half an hour become an unknown young man, a self-proclaimed civilian, demonstrating a depth of knowledge in handling a gun.

It is no time at all later that she hears the muted sounds of shots, and even less time until Jay lowers the gun. The scientists keep shooting for a handful of moments more before they too fall silent. The crowd is silent (or at least, it is far quieter than it has been so far), craning their necks to discover how deep that knowledge of Jay's was.

Stepping out of the firing booth, Jay weaves his way ably through the crowd that is suddenly talking again (and Carter knows that they have managed to discover the results, and have found them unexpected), and ends up leaning against the wall in his old position. His body language does not encourage discussion of the past minutes' events, and neither Carter nor Dalton is especially inclined to discuss it anyway. Carter knows without looking that Jay will have managed to find the bullseye with every shot, because she has seen O'Neill do it before, and Dalton probably holds the same knowledge, even if Carter doesn't know when or where he gained it.

They stand in silence, watching and waiting for the final row to finish the qualifications (what the recruits aren't being told is that these aren't official qualifications, which had already taken place back at the SGC, and will occur once again at a pre-determined later date; these are so the Atlantis personnel can gain some idea of whom they are supposed to work with). The three of them don't have to wait long, barring a brief altercation between a particularly argumentative woman and about five soldiers she had managed to irritate.

The crowd, the regular personnel along with the recruits, are dismissed by Lorne for lunch when the last group of civilians have finished. It takes them a moment to register the words, another moment to start moving, and Carter predicts that it will take the newest recruits several minutes more to remember where they are supposed to be eating that lunch (but that's fine; a double handful of Marines are already prepared to round up strays). Carter, on the other hand, stays exactly where she is, and Dalton and Jay follow her example, letting the multitudes stream by.

When the tail end of the crowd has all but vanished around the corner, leaving only the last few stragglers behind, Carter finds that her small group of three has achieved the addition of Major Lorne.

'Major Lorne?' she asks.

'Ma'am,' he replies. 'I was about to find lunch, but,' he pauses, here, and then continues 'if there is anything you need done first…?'

Carter doesn't give her revelation away in her expression (or so she hopes, for the millionth time in the recent past), but she comprehends that Lorne had been trying to find a polite way of asking why on Earth she had come to watch the action at the firing range. That query would perhaps present some negative implications regarding her ability at commanding the city, but Carter suspects that Lorne is fishing for information slightly beyond that. She isn't going to give it to him (it is hardly her secret to tell, and Jay would not appreciate a breach of trust).

'No,' she says, and tells him to eat lunch, because he will surely need it to maintain the strength of willpower to continue the seminars in the afternoon, and then compliments his progress with the recruits thus far.

'Thank you, ma'am,' Lorne says.

And then Carter, as the major finishes speaking, comes to an impulsive decision that may possibly be an abuse of her position. 'Oh, and Major Lorne?' she adds, before she can stop herself (and before she can regret the decision). 'I'm going to pull these two out of the remainder of the settling-in-and-lecture routine,' she says, gesturing at Jay and Dalton.

Lorne's expression briefly shows something like relief, before resettling into careful neutrality. 'Yes, ma'am,' he says.

They exchange nods, and the major heads off to – Carter assumes – eat something, just as she plans to do. When she turns to locate the two men for whom she now has to think up something else to do, Carter finds the pair standing about a metre away, evidently waiting for her to finish her conversation with Lorne. Captain Dalton, at least, has manners enough to pretend that he hadn't been eavesdropping, and is watching the people flowing slowly by.

Jay has no such qualms about being rude. His expression is one of deep thought, and Carter wonders (with a touch of something like pride) if she has surprised the young man (who _isn't_ a young man at all, except that he sort of is; and she isn't sure if she should treat him like a young man who deserves a life of his own, or as the older man he probably feels himself to be, except that he might not and she simply _doesn't know _and doesn't really want to ask; in situations like this, Carter would usually ask Daniel, and maybe that habit shouldn't be broken yet). She suspects that Jay is attempting to decide whether completing the introductory course would have ended up a source of greater irritation to himself than he could have, in the process, given to anyone within range.

All he says, though, is 'Playing favourites, Carter? Isn't that an abuse of your position?'

It isn't a complaint (although it does, in its perfect reflection of her own thoughts, provide a worrying thought as to just _how much_ General O'Neill influenced her without either of them ever realising), so Jay must have concluded that he would have gained more annoyance than he could have passed on.

'Not at all,' Carter says, nodding to Dalton as they fall into step, walking back towards the main sectors of the city. 'I'm using the additional knowledge my position gives me to save everyone the stress of putting you both through rehashed basic training.' She smiles. 'Not everyone would have survived.'

Jay snorts, startled into brief amusement, and shoves his hands in his pockets. Dalton gives a faint smile himself (still, it seems, unsure as to how protocol applies in this situation; Carter isn't sure herself, because O'Neill complicates _everything_, so she won't be enlightening him).

'On my part,' the captain says, 'I'd like to thank you for your commendable judgement, ma'am.'

'Thank you, Captain,' Carter replies.

**_end part ten_**


	11. Part 11

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: Right. Um. Sorry for the massive delay. Although, uh, there'll probably be another quite large delay after this chapter, as well. Oops. The trials of the HSC. Anyway. Hopefully you'll enjoy this part. And, you know, however long a gap there is after this chapter, I do intend to keep writing this fic.**

* * *

_**Days Like These**_

_**Part Eleven**_

It is with mixed feelings that Major Lorne reports to Sheppard. And the main problem, he thinks, is that he trusts Colonel Carter. That isn't to say that he _doesn__'__t_ trust John Sheppard, because that's the other half of the problem: he trusts Sheppard, too. But apparently Carter and Sheppard don't trust _each __other_. And Lorne wants to know why.

And far more importantly, he _needs_ to know why.

Because if this is some brief spat, some simple misunderstanding, then Lorne will be perfectly content with that state of affairs, if somewhat miffed that it has expanded so far, and so rapidly. If the only problem is that Colonel Carter hasn't shared some fragment of information Sheppard feels he is entitled to hear, then Lorne will be somewhat displeased, but willing to go along with it provided that it doesn't happen again in the too near future.

But this is Atlantis. Very rarely is anything ever simple. And even if it _is_ some simple, minor misunderstanding, it is probably only going to be simple momentarily, and only for the purposes of keeping everyone unprepared for when the problem inevitably reveals itself to be far more complex than anyone had given thought to, taking them all by unfortunate surprise (Lorne thinks, quietly, occasionally, that it's probably a bad sign that he tends to personify these things, and possibly he should try to stop).

In short, of whatever magnitude the issue currently is, Sheppard has picked it out as a problem. And it will, therefore, become one. Lorne isn't sure why this maxim holds so true, but it surely does. He doesn't analyse whether it is because Sheppard is extraordinarily perceptive about these matters, or if they become an issue _because_ Sheppard has picked them out to be. Both lines of thinking could easily be true, and Lorne will only do his head in if he thinks about it for too long.

And, after all, _someone_ needs to keep a clear head around this place. And it is to Lorne's regret that the duty of common sense falls all too often on his own head. But if something needs doing, it's probably better that Lorne does it himself, because otherwise he'll only end up worrying about it. And so, really, it's all Lorne's own fault that he insists on being level-headed when everyone else is occupied thinking up insanely suicidal plans of attack (although to be fair, plans of defence do occasionally enter into proceedings).

However well heroes-in-residence can pull off grand gestures, or save the world, or the galaxy, sometimes they're just a little less capable, seeing a little less clearly, the times when it's personal, hitting too close to home. Lorne doesn't deceive himself that, of Atlantis' senior command staff, he's probably the least likely to be a Hero, with a capital H (and, worryingly often, he's glad of it, too). And he'd probably never forgive himself if something ever goes wrong because some minor, vital detail is missed that he could have spotted with just a touch of common sense (and if something goes wrong, here, it will inevitably go _drastically_ wrong, and Lorne doesn't know when he started accepting that as the norm).

And it is with that _incredibly_ cheerful thought in mind that Lorne spots Sheppard, seated eating lunch with the rest of his team. Sheppard and McKay, he can see, are busily fretting (and, Lorne is sure, are even more busily plotting to solve their problems). Ronon and Teyla are far calmer, hardly talking at all that Lorne can hear, still half a room's distance away from their table. But even masked as their unrest is the rest of the room is still managing to pick up on it. And the room is remarkably full, barely a spare seat in sight, which only means that whatever gossip is generated this lunch will spread across the city all the faster.

And with an uneasy tension fogging the air, most of the room's inhabitants have fixed their gaze on Lorne even before he reaches his destination at Sheppard's table. He tries to ignore their stares, knowing that any response, any clue as to what he might be reporting to Sheppard, will only raise suspicions higher, and increase the gossip correspondingly (not that it won't happen anyway, but Lorne can _try_ to keep his actions his own affair, even if it's in vain). But even as everyone in the room carefully eavesdrops – seasoned veterans and new recruits alike, all with their ears open for new information – the burble of overlapping conversations doesn't cease for a moment.

They're far too experienced at this to let a sudden silence fall, because that really would be a dead giveaway that they're all listening. At the moment, and as the level of noise stands, it's only a near-certainty that they're listening, rather than confirmed fact. Lorne treats the eavesdropping as a confirmed fact anyway, because the other half of the reason that people are still talking is that they're either still passing on gossip and rumour, sharing mocked-up theories about it all, or speculating on what they might be about to learn (he also treats it as fact because, honestly, he's been around these people long enough to know that it _is_ fact).

But by the time Lorne reaches Sheppard's table, approximately every eye in the room in on him. It is not a comfortable sensation, and is made less comfortable still by the bare fact that he knows so few of the newbies (because, as he well knows, names and files and official records do not a person make, and so many of Atlantis' people are the proof of it). He keeps right on ignoring it, and at Sheppard's brief, casual welcome sits down next to Teyla (who, alone of her team, smiles at him in greeting).

Lorne takes a breath, ignores the fleeting school-yard sensation that he's being a tattletale, and starts talking. 'Do you want to hear about the seminar first,' he says, curious despite himself for their reactions to what he has to tell them, 'or the shooting range?'

* * *

Recounting a past mission is not, Carter has determined, rumour-mongering when it is the commander of the expedition perpetuating the gossip. She is, therefore, recounting the events of a certain past mission that, on the action-movie to bad-joke spectrum of missions, falls considerably towards the latter end of the scale. Her audience of two are suitably and satisfyingly engrossed. It is only when Carter reaches the part involving a junior acolyte and his unfortunate mistake regarding a goat, two apples, three candles and four members of Atlantis' finest, that she is interrupted.

'_Fail_!' Jay carols gleefully.

Carter stares at him (noticing Dalton rolling his eyes in something like exasperation), taken aback (and thinks: _that __is __not __the __O__'__Neill __I __know_). 'What?'

He, typically, looks blank. 'What?'

She gives in. 'You said "fail," Jay.'

He looks blank a second longer before he caves, and tells her 'Come on, Carter. It's what all the teenagers say these days. Get with it,' he concludes, teasingly chiding (and that _is_ more like the O'Neill she knows).

It catches Carter's attention sufficiently to side-track her almost entirely from her story. She pauses long enough for Jay to inquire (not quite warily, but certainly curiously) 'Carter? Something to share with the class?'

Fortuitously enough, that comment is in sync with her question.

'So have you,' Carter begins, and has to clarify, '_You_-you, I mean – ever actually been to high school? With teenagers? To pick up this lingo?'

'No,' Jay starts, drawing the word out, before apparently receiving a brainwave and changing his answer to 'Yes. Once. Briefly.' He pauses, and elaborates with 'In some crazy town in California.' He frowns, and corrects himself. 'No, wait. Twice. The other time as a fake exchange student. In England.'

'England?' Carter queries.

When Jay doesn't at first respond, Dalton fills the silence (because, thankfully, Carter can always count on _someone_ to answer). 'I believe he was saving a teenager's life. Or possibly endangering it. Or maybe both,' Dalton says, looking speculatively at Jay. 'I haven't figured that one out yet.' He pauses, and then says 'Also, I'm almost positive that the trip wasn't government-sanctioned.'

_That_ gets Carter's interest, or, really, merely heightens her level of interest already present. She thinks a second, and then asks 'Did you know them already?' She figures that O'Neill probably didn't need to know a kid to try to save their life, but it was at least a good starting point for the next round of twenty questions. 'Him or her?'

Jay shrugs, evidently thinking something along the lines of "_Oh, __what __the __hell_." 'Yeah. Met him before, also in England. And then later in some tiny country in Central Europe.'

'What were you doing in Central Europe?' Carter asks (and is that all she ever does these days?). She is then immediately surprised when Jay actually answers her, albeit for a given value of "answer".

'Oh, hotels. Aliens. Mind-wipes. World domination via the corporate sector. You know,' he says, airily flipping a hand. 'The usual.'

'Of course,' Carter murmurs, and is somehow not at all surprised to find herself doing so in perfect unison with Dalton.

They share a glance that is not without irony, united in O'Neill-exasperation, until Dalton apparently realises that he is in fact empathising over the tribulations of his sworn duty with a superior officer (although it likely isn't, Carter knows from personal experience, the duty he had expected when he had enlisted). Then Dalton remembers (or so Carter thinks, studying his facial expressions) that this specific superior officer is also his fellow parole officer supervising the recalcitrant subject of exasperation in question, and twitches a smile at her.

It's times like this when Carter thinks that she possibly pays too much attention to guessing at other people's thought processes (attention that does sometimes feel like she is prying in business not at all her own). Her usual next reaction is, of course, to remember that this is an important survival technique, well-learnt.

She twitches a smile back at Dalton, and turns her attention back to O'Neill (she probably shouldn't have ignored him, but she hasn't been around either of him for long enough recently to fall back into some of her _other _well-learnt survival techniques). O'Neill is smirking at them both. Laughter in his eyes. Carter doesn't bother to try guessing what _he__'__s_ thinking.

'And did you just happen to stumble across this alien plot of world domination via the corporate sector?' she asks curiously instead. Beside her, Dalton is listening just as inquisitive as she, though masking the emotion better.

'Not personally,' Jay says briefly. 'I was only supposed to be there to fill out the _adults__'_ cover, anyway,' he adds, his cynical and bitter emphasis laid thick on that one touchy word, none too subtly (and, again, Carter wonders if Dalton knows why, or if he assumes it's just the normal reaction to authority of a rebellious teenager; she needs to find out, because otherwise she'll slip up soon, if she hasn't already with that question about high school, mostly unnecessary with any normal, _actual_ teenager).

'But then it all fell apart?' Dalton asks.

Jay shrugs, one-shouldered. 'The best laid plans.'

'As always,' Carter agrees (she suspects, privately, and she won't be mentioning it to him, that O'Neill hadn't much minded about plans that left him out of the action going wrong).

There is a speculative silence, wherein Carter, at least, and she assumes Dalton, is pondering all the ways that mission could have gone wrong. It is a difficult task, knowing as she does approximately no details whatsoever. Jay lets them speculate fruitlessly.

Then he interrupts. 'So what happened to this novice priest guy?' he asks.

Carter blinks, takes a moment to pick up the lost threads of her story-telling, and recommences her rumour-mongering.

* * *

When Lorne disappears to leave them all to their lunch and possibly also to, guessing by the direction in which he had been glancing, go find some food for himself, Sheppard's team resettles themselves around their table. Lorne hadn't _interrupted_, as such, and Sheppard is and no doubt always will be grateful to have such a competent XO.

But _before_ he had arrived McKay had seemed on the verge of being about to spill the beans of whatever secret knowledge he's been keeping locked up in his head since before they had talked to Caldwell.

And _now_, McKay is focusing on finishing the last of his lunch and possibly ruminating over what Carter's latest decision might mean. Of course, they're all doing that, trying to figure out why Colonel Carter had decided to break tradition as she did, and what would happen because of it, but Sheppard would far prefer McKay to share his latest find before he leaves it behind, unspoken and unshared, and goes on to researching the next.

That is without taking into consideration the fact that this is the first private conversation the team have had since they talked to Caldwell, so they're currently a bit behind in collective re-evaluations of information; they need to find time to analyse whatever Caldwell may have let slip, and whatever Lorne's information means, including the part about shooting qualifications that's buzzing around every other table in the room.

'Well,' McKay begins, conversationally, 'it's suspicious.'

'Which bit?' Ronon asks, deadpan.

'Breaking precedent,' Teyla offers. She shrugs. 'But Colonel Carter's decision to pull them out doesn't tell us much by itself. It's just more evidence of…unusual happenings.'

'It means she trusts that they can deal with, you know, all this alien, other-galaxy stuff without needing the seminars,' Sheppard says. 'So either she's being overconfident about them-'

'Unlikely,' McKay chips in.

'-or she _knows_ that they can deal.'

'And we already knew she knows them,' McKay says. 'What _I_ find interesting is the shooting thing.'

'And that the rumours about it aren't actually exaggerated, if what Lorne said is true,' Teyla adds.

Sheppard nods. 'He's a civilian-'

'Apparently,' McKay interrupts, _again._

'-but he can use a gun like an experienced crack shot.' Sheppard pauses, and adds, possibly superfluously, 'And Lorne didn't think he'd just learnt it at a range, either.'

'So all we have are more questions,' Ronon comments, and looks displeased at the thought.

Silence falls, although admittedly a silence that is filled with the assorted sounds of other people talking and eating. There isn't really much to add to the observation. Unless of course, Sheppard remembers, McKay will deign to tell them whatever it is he had discovered.

'McKay,' Sheppard begins.

'Yeah?' The scientist starts in on what looks to be (what must surely be) one of his last mouthfuls.

'You had something you needed to tell us?'

'Hmmm?' McKay asks with his mouth full, looking puzzled, waiting for embellishment.

'Before you insisted we talk to Caldwell, you implied you'd found something important,' Sheppard obligingly clarifies, and waits for a response.

'Mmmm,' McKay says, in a tone of enlightenment, waving an emphatic fork in circles in the air to convey that he does, indeed, have something else to say. He swallows, and puts the fork down. 'Right. Well, when I was digging about in the _Daedalus__'_ records earlier,' he begins, and Sheppard feels the need to interrupt him, just for a moment.

'Is the legal sort of digging around in other people's records, or the illegal hacking kind?'

McKay just gives him a "_shouldn__'__t __that __be __obvious_" look, and continues speaking. 'I, naturally, had a look for anything mentioning our two mystery guests.'

'Jay and Captain Dalton.'

'Right. And, this is the strange part: there was nothing. Not even obviously faked personnel files; nothing. Literally, nothing. At all. Whatsoever,' McKay says, and then waits for his team's reactions.

He is not, Sheppard thinks, disappointed by their slightly dumbfounded expressions. And in the instant before his teammates get over their initial moments of being lost for words, and start asking questions, McKay continues talking.

'There isn't anything about them being transferred to Atlantis. There isn't anything about them being transferred anywhere, from anywhere_._ There isn't anything about them being on the _Daedalus _at all. There is not a single piece of information in the archives with the name "Greg Dalton" on it, and not a single piece mentioning an obnoxiously irritating "Jay". There aren't any records floating around loose and unattached to people, that might suggest that they're here under false names. There is not a single trace. Almost like someone's gone through and wiped any mention clean.' He pauses, and then adds in a different tone, 'And we don't even know Jay's _surname_, by the way.'

'So what Colonel Caldwell said about everyone here having been vetted,' Teyla begins.

'Might have been a load of codswallop?' McKay finishes for her. 'Yeah, pretty much.'

'You might not have access,' Ronon puts in, either playing devil's advocate or doubting McKay's computer skills to get a rise, Sheppard isn't sure which.

'No,' McKay says forcefully. 'They're not there. If I couldn't find them, it's because they're not _there_ to _be_ found.'

Sheppard, at this point, feels like he should play a bit of devil's advocate himself. McKay has enough confidence in his findings – or rather his non-findings – to cope with it. 'But just because the records aren't on the _Daedalus _doesn't mean they don't exist,' he says.

'And,' Teyla adds, 'wouldn't it be hard to make it the whole way here with no questions? It's not as if they came on false credentials, if you're right; they came with _no_ credentials. Surely anyone would find that strange.'

'He,' Ronon begins, gesturing at McKay, 'wasn't there to be asking questions, on the way here.'

Ronon gets a glare for that comment. 'No, I wasn't,' McKay says curtly (although possibly, Sheppard thinks, with just a hint of pride in his voice). 'And,' he adds, 'no one would find it strange if they didn't _know_ about it. Which would be unlikely, because no one else would think to _look_.'

'But, hang on,' Sheppard says. 'If their records weren't on the _Daedalus_, Caldwell probably doesn't know any more than we do about who they are, or why they were on his ship.' And the latter point, Sheppard would have thought, should have been enough to get Caldwell onside with Sheppard's attempts to find out just who Jay and Dalton are; from what Sheppard can tell, Caldwell is about as possessive about the _Daedalus_ as Sheppard is (yes, he admits it) about Atlantis.

But it hasn't been.

'But he still defended them,' Teyla comments. 'And he was defending Colonel Carter's decision not to tell us, too, I think, just as much as he didn't want to interfere in her command.'

'He plain as day _said_ he wasn't allowed to talk about them,' McKay says. He rolls his eyes, and adds, 'It was about _all_ he told us.'

And _that_, Sheppard thinks, is probably as complete and accurate a summation of that conversation as they're ever going to come up with. Caldwell had been frustratingly, stubbornly uncommunicative.

McKay continues with 'It just _proves _there's something suspicious about all this. He wouldn't have been given a gag order if their records had just been _lost_,' McKay finishes, derisive emphasis on the last word, giving a supercilious, _see, __this __just __proves __my __point, __and __don__'__t __doubt __my __computer __skills __again_, glance in Ronon's direction.

'He does trust them, though,' Teyla says, furthering her point of earlier. 'He's annoyed at Jay, I think,' she continues, and Sheppard takes a moment to agree wholeheartedly with that assessment, because he doubts there are very many people at all who wouldn't be annoyed at Jay, especially if they had recently spent weeks on a spaceship with like Caldwell must have. 'But he _does _trust him,' Teyla finishes, and shrugs. 'If he didn't, I suspect he'd know how to work around an order not to officially mention something. Whether he knows why they're here or not, he doesn't believe that it's wrong, or harmful.'

And, well, Sheppard has to agree with that. Caldwell may not like him personally, and that feeling might be returned by Sheppard, but Caldwell would never let that get in the way if he honestly thought that someone posed a threat to Atlantis or its people. But of course, that's no guarantee that there _isn__'__t_ a threat, just that it's one Caldwell doesn't know about.

'He could have been told about them verbally,' Ronon adds. 'Without records.'

'Well,' Sheppard starts, 'he said something about General O'Neill, didn't he? And a lot of people have-' he manages to say, before being interrupted (he _had _been about to say something about worryingly deep-seated tendencies to trust that man, although he probably wouldn't have used those exact terms out loud, in case someone who had actually served at the SGC – and therefore possesses those exact same tendencies – is in hearing distance and therefore within arguing distance also).

'Hah, yes,' McKay says, pointing a finger at Sheppard. 'I had an idea about that.'

There is a deep and expectant silence – during which Teyla looks somehow both amused and resigned, in that way she has, and McKay goes back to his lunch – before Ronon gives in.

'Are you going to tell us?' he asks.

McKay looks up from the remains of his lunch, absently saying 'Hmm? Oh. No. Not yet.'

Sheppard rolls his eyes. 'Okay,' he says. 'You go ahead and tell us when you're ready, then.' And if his tone is just a little patronising, well, humouring a genius can be difficult. Anyone on Atlantis would sympathise.

The genius in question just nods, possibly not even listening to Sheppard's words at all.

Ronon grunts, and adds in a rumbling undertone '_Before_ we end up dead, would be helpful.'

McKay doesn't even bother looking affronted.

**_end part eleven_**

* * *

**A/N: um, the reference in there to Central Europe and alien invasion? It's, uh, actually a reference to a fic I have strong ideas for but haven't finished writing. It's not yet on the internet, either. And the bit about attending school as a fake exchange student is another fic, same series, also mostly unwritten, also only on my harddrive. **

**Although the first time Jay met this other kid (who is of course Alex Rider, if you've read those books) is my fic _Retroactive Housekeeping_. **

**And the crazy town in California is Sunnydale, of course (and also my fic _Housekeeping Duties_, but uh..)**

**Yeah. I felt I should maybe clarify that.**


	12. Part 12

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone recognises.**_

**A/N: I'm really sorry about the long gap. If it helps any, the next part won't be nearly so long a wait-mostly because I practically finished it before even starting to write this part. Because I'm organised like that. Also this part has been needing approximately three sentences extra for about two weeks, before I finally wrote them today, procrastinating on the two essays I'm meant to actually be writing.**

**In any case, there's actually a smattering of plot points thrown in amongst the rest of this chapter. Meaning that there might actually be proper plot later on. You never know. We can but hope.**

* * *

_**Part Twelve**_

The Daedalus is leaving Atlantis imminently, Carter knows. In less than a matter of hours, in fact, although not yet minutes. As such, the last preparations for departure are being carried out (Carter hasn't directly asked what these entail, but – beyond the basic checks of systems functioning – at least some of them probably involve transactions and restocking less than strictly required by orders). And, the crew of the Daedalus all being well-trained, experienced, and thoroughly capable, these preparations (particularly those involving, for an utterly random and hypothetical example, the refined product of Atlantis' scientists' stills) would probably only be hindered by Caldwell's presence, who would have nothing to do but unnecessary supervision. He has, therefore, occupied himself elsewhere.

It's all perfectly logical, sensible, practical, whatever other synonyms she can think of – and after so many years of exposure to Daniel's linguistic lectures, and the Colonel's – the General's – occasional stress-induced tendency to turn thesaurus, and even Teal'c's semi-regular need for clarification of phrases idiomatic or otherwise, Carter has become quite good at producing synonyms. But all the synonyms her mind can provide don't entirely explain how Colonel Caldwell progressed from not disrupting proceedings to inhabiting her office. Camping out there, almost, for the time until his ship leaves for Earth. One thing he isn't doing, however, is hiding in there (Carter doesn't know who he would hide from, in any case). It can't be a matter of hiding, because Carter's office, besides herself and now Caldwell, also houses Jay and Captain Dalton.

And just what is it about her office, Carter wonders without much hope of ever getting an answer, that makes everyone want to convene there? Whether with or without her knowledge of the fact?

Of course, she _had _invited Jay and Dalton in to her office to eat lunch in private, away from the gossip of the mess-hall. So their presence _is_ her fault. She hadn't, however, known that Caldwell would be arriving, complete with his own selection of mess-hall food. She can't turn him away, however crowded the room might be becoming, and whatever misgivings Caldwell might be allowing to show on his face when he sees Jay and Dalton, because that isn't the done thing (and also because her mouth is full, but Carter will gloss over that). And the other colonel settles down easily enough, occupying himself with his food.

It's only when their lunches have all been eaten that there is an awkward silence (as opposed to the this-would-be-awkward-if-we-weren't-all-so-clearly-otherwise-occupied-in-such-a-manner-that-talking-would-not-be-socially-acceptable-and-so-that's-okay silence of the preceding minutes). And it _is_ awkward, this stretching moment when no one seems to know what to say to anyone else, for all that Captain Dalton's calmly neutral expression seems to be pretending he's perfectly content with the situation. But Carter hasn't survived this long to be defeated by an atmosphere of mild uncomfortableness.

Her first question is one which, she thinks, Jay can't honestly begrudge her an answer to, not if he wants to have leeway to avoid answering questions later in the conversation. And even if he does, Carter is quite sure that both of the other men sitting in her office know the answer. She picks up the technological device of unknown origin she'd received along with an unexpected parole officer-ship from where it has been doing duty as a paperweight.

'What,' she says, 'is this, exactly?'

She's had barely a moment to look at it, in truth, since she moved it from her pocket to her desk. But, now that her attention has been drawn back to the device, she remembers how she had received it. And, more significantly, the fact that parole is – apparently – attached to it, going by Jay's comments that it had been transferred from Caldwell to Carter with no more than Jay stealing the device from one and tossing it to the other. It makes her wonder just how official this parole actually _is_; just how legal it is (or even, her mind suspiciously suggests, how _real _it is). There had been no paperwork involved in it, for one thing. And when everything else in the military generates paperwork like it's going out of fashion (which it never will, not while there's red tape and bureaucracy), that's an even stranger occurrence than it initially sounds.

'It's to help you keep track of Jay,' Dalton volunteers when it looks like no one else will (and, it appears, Carter had been entirely right when she had first seen the device and guessed its purpose; it's probably within her rights to feel a little smug about that, she thinks). 'I'm led to understand that it's similar to when criminals are given conditional parole, or house arrest, and have to wear an ankle bracelet to transmit their location to the authorities.'

With that reference, Dalton looks uncomfortable for a brief moment, but (or so Carter imagines, practising her guessing-other-people's-thought-processes skills again) steels himself to continue against his possibly-better-judgement. 'Only, clearly, without the ankle bracelet. I've been led to believe that the transmitter is a form of reverse-engineered alien nanotechnology. There was a mention of partially-organic nanites in his bloodstream, but I can't say how accurate that description is. I also heard something about a more regular microchip, tied into the nerves of the spine.' Dalton hesitates, and adds, 'Whatever the actual specifics, the process would have needed at the very least an injection, or multiple injections, or maybe an operation, I don't know.' Another pause, another strained expression. 'Jay won't say how, when, or where that happened.'

Carter can read between the lines. If O'Neill won't talk about it, then chances are it's serious (or too personal for him to be able to freely share without someone pestering it out of him, and this situation sounds like both of those). And maybe having a means of locating him is a good idea, because she doesn't know what he does now, but it undoubtedly involves him getting into trouble. But he also undoubtedly still gets touchy about over-interference in his life and/or privacy. And especially when the person or persons overly-interfering are not, say, Daniel (or even when they are Daniel, really). And _particularly _especially when the said overly-interfering people are, to put it bluntly, parole officers with whom Carter assumes he shares a minimum of trust.

As the captain explicates the situation as he understands it, Carter notices Jay looking grimly stone-faced; and she begins to understand why Dalton hadn't wanted to mention this, beyond the sticky tangle of morals and ethics. Dalton's life is probably easier if he's actually on speaking terms with Jay. More importantly, _civil _speaking terms. But in any case, the conversation seems to be turning to the actual operation of the device, and not its origins, and she hands it over when Dalton asks for it so he can demonstrate.

And the demonstration is easily understood, aided by the fact that the device seems to have been constructed with the intention of being as close to fool-proof as possible. Once switched on, the display lights up, and without any prompting begins searching for the precise location of its target – Jay. Or, rather, it displays a small dot on the screen labelled _J. O'Neill_, and follows that up with an approximation of the physical distance between Jay and the device itself.

'It also has GPS capabilities,' Dalton says as he hands the device back to Carter, 'but, well…' He gestures around them.

'Only on Earth?' Carter finishes for him.

'Yeah,' he agrees. 'I think it's also meant to be possible to upload detailed – blueprints, or graphics, or something similar – of a certain area, to replace or support that function. Like Atlantis, for instance.' He shrugs. 'But it was never explained to me how that works.'

Carter looks at Caldwell, in question, but he shakes his head before she asks. 'Nor me,' he says. He grimaces and adds 'Although it could have been helpful.'

And when Carter looks at Jay, he already has a familiar expression of glazed-over boredom on his face. When she doesn't take that as an answer, he makes the subtle facial alterations necessary to communicate disbelief. _You honestly think I'd have any idea how to work that thing?_ And while Carter personally thinks that O'Neill would go to considerable lengths to try gaining an understanding of any piece of technology that affects him so directly, she lets his response lie.

'Alright,' she says. 'We can work that out later, if need be.' And she probably can, if the simple, even-an-idiot-could-use-this design holds true. And even if it doesn't.

She puts the device back in its previous position, holding down paperwork. Even as she does so, and even with her mind puzzling out the next question, her gaze slides irresistibly from the currently-only-_moderately_-useful-given-a-lack-of-indications-of-basic-architectural-features-such-as-walls piece of technology to her watch.

The time, of course, is six minutes later than it had been when she had looked six minutes ago. She looks up again, and – as she had known would be the case, if she had stopped to think about it instead of automatically obeying twitchy instinct – not one of the men seated in her office has missed the direction of her gaze, however momentarily it had flickered downwards.

Caldwell coughs slightly, shifts in his seat, and asks 'Is something wrong?'

He probably thinks she wants them out of her office, Carter diagnoses. But she is interrupted before she can correct his assumption (she would have done it politely, though). Jay had been frowning, a bit, trying to figure out the meaning of her movements.

Now he says 'Late 'gate team?' Monosyllabic, abrupt, short, and accurate.

Carter nods. 'SGA-9. An hour.'

Jay nods back; Caldwell looks enlightened, Dalton curious. The reactions make sense: O'Neill has seen as many late 'gate teams as she has, and knows how to recognise the tension that goes with waiting for them; Caldwell is experienced, but mostly experienced with spaceships, and the _Daedalus_, a different form of travel altogether; and Carter doesn't know about Dalton, but that's probably her answer – she's never seen his name attached to the SGC, and so he's probably a newcomer to the program, and so too a curious newcomer to the concept of late 'gate teams. She doesn't take the time to indulge Dalton's curiosity, however, because a new thought has occurred to her (and besides, Jay will probably explain it to him later).

'So do you have one of these?' she asks Dalton, tapping the tracking device.

Because she is beginning to see, here, some definite possibilities for ganging up on Jay – so to speak – to get some answers he might not otherwise answer. And if that seems a little harsh, well, it isn't as if Jay isn't perfectly capable of defending against the tactic anyway. Not to mention that this is a limited-time offer, and she needs to try it out now, if she does at all. There is also the interesting notion that Caldwell had been looking inordinately interested in the technological technicalities, making Carter wonder just how much he had been told, on the way here, and how proportionately invested he might be in learning some answers now (remembering their earlier conversation, she thinks the answer is: quite a bit).

'No, ma'am,' Dalton says immediately. He shrugs. 'It was thought to be unnecessary, given that my duties mandate that I remain within sight of Jay at all times. I'm not supposed to lose him, so I'm not _supposed_ to need one of those,' he finishes, gesturing at Carter's new piece of technology with a wry twist of his lips.

_Duties_, Carter muses; _given the mandate of Dalton's duties_. Logic dictates choice of her next question. She says: 'So – as I _do_ have possession of this device – what are my duties as a parole officer? Officially?'

'Officially,' Dalton begins, and pauses (significantly so, unless Carter is projecting again). 'Officially your duties consist broadly of staying away from Jay. Keeping your distance.' He looks faintly apologetic, at that statement.

Jay doesn't bother with niceties. 'To avoid contamination,' he says, and his snort shows just what he thinks of _that_.

Dalton grimaces. 'The secondary parole officer,' he says, gesturing to Carter, 'is supposed to be, theoretically, impartial. Also, generally, to provide higher-level back-up for the primary parole officer when, uh, additional concerns are raised as to the behaviour of their joint charge.'

'You being the primary,' Carter says, to clarify the lack of names in that explanation.

Dalton nods.

'If it's any help,' Caldwell puts in (and Carter remembers that, of course, the colonel would know what her duties entail, they had been his), 'the captain here seems not to need much back-up.' He shrugs.

The motion says to Carter: _not that I think you're going to want, or even try, to stay away_. She can't help but agree. Whatever contamination it is assumed she will contract by merely being around Jay, she surely already has it. Impartiality is already a lost cause, as whoever sent Jay here would have known, and appointed her parole officer all the same (and if she can't mentally twist _that_ into tacit permission to abandon any such attempt at impartiality, she's losing her touch).

But she nods in understanding, all the same. And then asks another question. 'Is that why there are two parole officers, then? For clear separation in duties? The different viewpoints?'

Jay's response is not entirely unexpected. 'It's to make my life difficult,' he says, scowling.

Dalton's response, on the other hand, is somewhat more unexpected, and not least because it seems to be more anecdotal than any information he has yet shared. 'The way I heard it,' he begins (and Carter hears Jay scoff at that opening, but otherwise he doesn't interrupt), 'it wasn't always planned that way. There was just the one, at first; the position that became that of the secondary parole officer.' He opens his hands, palms upwards, shrugs.

Caldwell looks less dour than is strictly usual. 'How did you hear it?' he asks.

'It's not really that big a deal,' Dalton says, sounding almost apologetic. 'The way I heard, Jay was making trouble for the parole officer,' he continues (and Carter thinks he is deliberately and overtly sounding non-judgemental, in a way that means he really is judging quite heavily). 'And the technology,' he gestures at Carter's new tracking device, 'consistently had difficulties. Crashed.'

'And,' Jay interrupts, 'of course, guess who got the blame?' He rolls his eyes.

'I doubt it was unfairly,' Caldwell mutters.

Jay ignores him.

'After a second, primary parole officer was assigned, the technology miraculously kept working,' Dalton finishes.

'Not much point, _then_, was there?' Jay murmurs.

Carter hides a smile. 'So then you were assigned?' she asks Dalton.

She thinks she knows the answer to this one, is asking it to give her mind time to think up another appropriate question. Apparently, she doesn't know at all.

'Well, no,' Dalton says. 'The _first _primary parole officer was a man called – Ivens, I think.' He pauses, thinking, and then adds, 'Lieutenant Colin Ivens.'

Caldwell looks as grudgingly curious as he had previously; Jay, worryingly, is smirking, presumably at whatever memory the name had conjured in his mind.

'What happened to him?' Carter asks.

'He lasted about a week and a half,' Dalton says, shrugging. 'Then, I heard, he requested reassignment.'

And, yes, Jay is definitely smirking.

'It wasn't granted,' Dalton continues. 'But over the next week he petitioned for the same thing at least twice a day. I'm not sure what reasons he gave, exactly, but he _was_ granted his request a day under three weeks after being given the assignment.'

'I wonder why he was driven to that,' Caldwell mutters, eyeing Jay with not a small degree of suspicion.

Jay looks back at him, not quite managing "guileless", and gives a one-shouldered shrug. 'It wasn't actually twice a day,' he says.

'After Ivens,' Dalton continues, 'was Reid. After Reid was – Bracewell?' he asks, looking at Jay.

Jay nods. 'Yeah,' he says. 'Bracewell.' He grins. 'Then Hernandez, then Hallett, then Garcia…' He trails off.

'And I replaced Captain Forrest,' Dalton concludes.

Carter assumes that means that Dalton isn't entirely sure, either, how many parole officers there were before him; doesn't know just how large any gap between Garcia and Forrest might have been. 'Does the secondary parole officer have the same turn-over rate?' she asks, in just-concealed fascination that she can probably pass off as justifiable self-interest in her own continuing well-being.

For a silent moment, no one answers. Then Dalton says, briefly, 'No.'

'He doesn't change,' Jay says.

And whoever this person is, Jay's feelings are plain enough. The barest narrowing of his eyes, thin twist of his lips, all speaks of distaste; makes it more than obvious that he won't be adding anything to the information he's already provided.

Caldwell, though, either doesn't see that or – more likely – doesn't care to dance around whatever parameters Jay has set for the conversation. 'Who is he?' he asks, bluntly.

And, alright, Carter wants to know the answer. It's part indefatigable curiosity (and perhaps inappropriate curiosity, at that, but no matter), and part concern, and a desire to _do something _about whatever it is (_who_ever it is) that is so getting on O'Neill's nerves. If Caldwell hadn't asked, Carter would have, even knowing the chances of getting a sensible, straightforward answer.

There is a long moment where no one makes a sound. Jay doesn't move, save to glare at Caldwell. On his part, Caldwell wants an answer, and isn't going to back down, just waits expectantly (or at any rate, Carter thinks, he is waiting with the appearance of expectation, not necessarily because he predicts getting an answer). Carter and Dalton watch them.

Eventually, Jay breaks the silence. 'Military,' he says, telling no one anything they couldn't have already guessed. 'And irrelevant. He isn't here.'

That last addendum makes Carter start, a little, because it hadn't even been anything she'd considered – that there might have been someone else here, on Atlantis, involved in this (but it's a moot point, anyway).

'And,' Dalton says, 'he's changed now.' He gestures at Carter.

And, of course, there's that, too. Jay relaxes, a little (Carter isn't sure how she can tell that he relaxes; he had been slouched, before, not a tense muscle to be seen – but he _had_ been tense, and now he isn't, and is she spending too much time analysing these things?). And then Carter realises what has been niggling at her, ever since Dalton had been relating what he knew of those that had gone before him.

She says, 'So getting a parole officer – and then officers, plural – was for a different reason than being sent here? If it happened so much earlier?'

There is a pause, presumably as the rest of the room's occupants try to follow the tracks her train of thought has just jumped.

'Yes,' Jay says. His mulish expression says quite plainly that she won't be getting any more out of him on that topic.

But if she gives up every time she's faced with that expression, she'll never get anywhere. And besides, she's just now been given Caldwell's excellent example of what to do in this sort or situation: pester and nag until some sort of answer is given (not that Caldwell had pestered; but Carter's quite sure he would have, in his own way, if she hadn't just interrupted).

'I know we've been over this,' Carter begins.

'Yeah,' Jay mutters, 'we have.'

She ignores him. 'But I still don't know _why_ you're here.' She pauses, lets that question settle in, and then asks another one. 'And what am I expected to do with you now that you're here?'

It's the second half of her statement she really wants an answer to. She knows precisely what a pain in the ass an unoccupied O'Neill can be, and Carter doesn't have any wish to voluntarily repeat those too-many experiences. Any trouble he's causing now, he's causing in idleness, as a natural result of his presence; if he actually puts his mind to it, her problems will multiply (and whatever her earlier thoughts when he first turned up, Carter has enough to deal with already, a whole galaxy's worth of trouble).

And, of course, because it's the second part she wants an answer to, it's the first part that she _gets_ an answer to.

'Politics,' Jay says. 'I lost my temper. People took offence.'

And, alright, Carter thinks, that sounds like the truth. But at the same time, it could describe so many situations that it tells her absolutely nothing (a brief whisper of _death threats _echoes in her mind). By Dalton's sigh, and the expression of faint accusation he aims at Jay, he agrees.

'Have you had a single discussion involving politics where you _haven't_ lost your temper?' Dalton asks.

Jay looks affronted. '_Yes_,' he says indignantly. And then he adds: 'Sometimes I even manage several in a row.' In Carter's mind, the addendum doesn't help his case (regardless of whether or not he's joking, it still doesn't help). Neither does the next one. 'Sometimes _they're_ the ones losing their tempers.'

'I wonder why,' Caldwell mutters.

'It's not _my_ fault if they can't deal with the pressures of their jobs,' Jay says.

Carter thinks that is possibly a blatant lie. O'Neill is well capable of being an added stressor all by himself. She suspects that _this_ O'Neill would probably elevate the pressures of all sorts of jobs, and do it with a will, unrestrained by typical, conventional military regulations as he appears to be (although she could be projecting, there, yet _again_).

'I think the pressure of _my_ job is entirely your fault,' Dalton comments, pauses, winces pre-emptively, and then blinks when he doesn't hear the (no doubt sarcastic and acerbic) response he evidently expects.

Instead, when they all look, Jay is distracted by staring absently at the door.

'Jay?' Carter and Dalton say simultaneously.

Caldwell contents himself with a questioning glance (a facial expression that is possibly, Carter's unfortunately imaginative mind tells her, possessed of undertones of scepticism and a sense of vindication aimed at Jay's oddities). Jay blinks, grins at them all without actually meeting anyone's eyes, or even looking especially gleeful, and doesn't have time to say anything before there is a knock on the door.

Carter frowns at it automatically, her thoughts having been unexpectedly sent into a slight tail-spin (the train of thought concludes with a memory of transparent forcefields at the shooting range, and a confused _Atlantis?_), and then remembers to say 'Come in.'

The door opens, revealing Sheppard and, behind him, Major Lorne. And there are sounds of shuffling further back that suggest the rest of Sheppard's team has arrived as well. What _is_ it about her office? Well, actually, she knows this one; in this case at least, it's probably because the two men are looking for her – Lorne nearly always looks calmly professional, but now Sheppard is as well.

He ignores (on the surface, at least) the other three sitting in Carter's office and says 'SGA-9 are late.'

Carter nods, keeps her expression neutral, and replies 'I know.'

He doesn't mean it to insult, to imply she doesn't know her own job (and she doesn't feel it like an insult – much). It's more a reminder (subconscious on his part, she thinks), or an example, of how great a care he has for the people under their command (she cares, too, because the chain of command as she sees it goes both ways, the burden of responsibility hand in hand with the power of giving orders – but Sheppard has known them longer, and sees them as far more his people than hers). It's backing each other up to catch any misfields, even in the middle of whatever issues might now lie between them as a result of Jay's appearance (yet another tangled set of pressing matters she'll need to think on; they do keep piling up, and the most recent all seem to be O'Neill's fault).

In any case, Sheppard nods at her acknowledgement. 'Right, then,' he says.

And, with that short exchange concluded, Lorne steps forward, and proffers a bundle of folders. 'The reports you asked for, ma'am,' he says.

Carter takes a moment to remember just which set of paperwork, exactly, she had asked for, and when. But – of course. The seminars had always been a good idea, and she agrees with them, but even though they help in the long run, they do create even more paperwork than otherwise necessary. Nothing, admittedly, she isn't used to, and nothing to worry unduly about—except Major Lorne is hesitating. Which can only logically mean that he has something else to say, something to add to an entirely ordinary, run-of-the-mill routine, and for some reason he isn't keen to broach the subject.

'Is something wrong?' she asks, concerned.

'No, ma'am,' Lorne says immediately. It's reassuring, even if Lorne clearly still has something he hasn't yet said. But even as the thought crosses Carter's mind, Lorne is continuing. 'There is some additional paperwork I felt you should be aware of, though, ma'am.'

'There's always paperwork,' Caldwell says.

He isn't wrong. Carter waits for the explanation, and gets it.

'We haven't needed to use this one before, though, so I thought I should mention it,' Lorne says. And is that accusation in his tone, there? 'They're waivers, to exempt newcomers from completing the introductory seminar program, and formally state your trust that completion is unnecessary.'

Something must show on Carter's face at that news. Some sort of hesitation, perhaps. She can't be sure. But Lorne allows a wisp of worry to drift across his expression, and Sheppard suddenly looks carefully, worryingly blank-faced.

And Jay – Jay asks, 'Don't you trust me?' There's an edge of mockery to his voice.

Carter doesn't say anything. Because maybe she doesn't trust him not to wind up in some sort of trouble, or trust him not to cause trouble, but she trusts _him._ Of course she does. Even if a small paranoid voice at the back of her mind whispers that this is perhaps a new person, not the one she knows, and who in certain instances she would be wise to, in fact, _not_ trust utterly whole-heartedly…she shuts the voice up. Because she does trust him. It isn't even a conscious decision.

So she doesn't answer him, just gives him a Look. He subsides, leaving her free to tell Lorne, plainly, calmly, as if there hadn't been any interruption, that she will make sure to fill out the extra forms. Thankfully, that seems to lay the subject to rest. Carter turns her focus to Sheppard. Sheppard, who had been listening carefully to that whole exchange, focuses right back at her.

'M4X-110,' Carter says, pauses, and – as she had expected – doesn't need to complete the thought for Sheppard to understand where she's going with it.

He's nodding, and picks up more or less where she had left off. 'Prepared and ready,' Sheppard says, with a faint grimace, there and gone again. 'Even McKay,' he adds.

Carter appreciates the postscript; McKay had been the most vociferous of complainers about the mission. Of course, some complaints from the man are to be expected, and she would probably worry if she didn't hear at least four from him. But Carter isn't thoroughly sure to which aspect of the upcoming mission McKay has taken an especial aversion: it is fully expected to be as close to a milk run as the team is going to get (at least on paper, which doesn't take into account the effect SGA-1 has on the laws of probability).

'Good to know,' Carter says.

She doesn't offer anything else, because anything else would be patronisation. Sheppard's doing his job, and he does his job well (she wouldn't expect any less). Regardless, there doesn't appear to much more to say. Sheppard and Lorne take their leave; the ensuing muted conversation outside confirms that, yes, that had indeed been the rest of Sheppard's team waiting outside. For whatever reason.

'Alright,' Carter continues once there is quiet again, addressing, as a whole, the three still in her office. 'Now I actually have work to do. Everyone out.'

And, with the requisite good-humoured grumbling from Jay, they all leave. Carter can hear Jay and Dalton talking all the way down the corridor, Jay poking fun at Dalton, and Dalton taking the mockery and sarcasm without a murmur and returning his own calm rejoinders. There is the occasional low-voiced interjection from Caldwell.

Okay, then, Carter thinks. Now she actually has to work.

It's only hours later, after the _Daedalus_ has left, after they've all gone their separate ways for the night, after she's done the habitual daily procedures that are the Atlantis equivalent of locking all the doors and windows, making sure the gas heaters and the stove and the iron are switched off, when Carter remembers her question, and realises it had very carefully never been answered. She _still_ needs to find something to do with Jay and Dalton.

And it's more apparent than ever that she's not going to get a single bit of help out of Jay on that point.

**_end part twelve_**


	13. Part 13

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing anyone...oh, you all know how it goes. Nothing but the plot and the OCs.**_

**A/N:**** A little over a month isn't too bad, right? Anyway, it's the longest chapter thus far, which will hopefully tide you over until the next installment in I-have-no-idea-how-long. Sorry about that. Although, for some insight into the issues I have with my writing process, the OCs in this part appear to be named after members of the Australian and New Zealand cricket teams, dating the writing of at least some of this chapter during last December. Yeah, I know. I have problems writing stuff in order. **

**Also: not directly relevant to this chapter, but two things that should probably be kept in mind: first, this wasn't initially intended to be an entirely serious take on anything at all (I can't remember why I intended to tell you this, but I'm sure there's a reason, probably related to my tendency to make things up when I don't know the answers to questions, and an odd sense of humour). **

**And second, more plot-relevant, is that I put a lot of stock in subjective narration. That is, however hard the characters try, they aren't omniscient. Anything they say is from their perspective, which could well be flawed in some way, especially if other people are lying to them, and even more if they don't know they're being lied to. Um. Yes. This makes marginal sense, but it ought to by the end of the fic (provided I ever do finish it, although I'm remaining optimistic on that point).**

* * *

_**Part Thirteen**_

The morning of the third day (only the second full day, however) that he will spend on Atlantis dawns significantly earlier than Captain Dalton would prefer. It begins, in fact, to be more literal, _before_ the dawn. Of course, Dalton is used to early starts – it comes with the job (his usual job, that is, not necessarily his current assignment). And he is rapidly becoming used to _unusual_ starts the longer he spends around Jay ("early" and "unusual" not being the same). But he still doesn't enjoy being forcibly woken up. It is also less than helpful that he hasn't quite worked out how the days work here, not running on the 24-hours-in-a-day schedule to which he is used.

But more to the point, he has a distinct dislike of being catapulted into on-edge wakefulness, his nerves vibrating to the note of _danger_, before realising it's only Jay, and relaxing. And _then_ realising in an uncomfortable double-take that Jay isn't precisely harmless, and his being here means that he could have been doing _anything_ without Dalton's knowledge. And Dalton's _job_ is to know exactly what Jay is doing, all the time.

Much to his occasional frustration, Dalton has no science-or-telepathy-enhanced link to Jay, to let him know what his charge is thinking at any given time; it would certainly make his job far easier, if perhaps not his mental health. But regardless of whatever extent Dalton manages to succeed at fulfilling his orders, he is woken in this particular manner far too often, and it never fails to annoy Dalton on some level. Nor, for that matter, does it fail to amuse Jay, even if it's only a superficial, fleeting amusement. Dalton stares exasperatedly at Jay, who grins back.

And then he lets the expression fall, and says abruptly 'Come on, rise and shine.' He waves his hands in Dalton's direction, trying to shoo him into action. 'Get dressed. Things to do, people to see.'

Dalton stays motionless a moment more, watching the younger man leaning casually against the wall, and then gives in. If he doesn't, he knows from experience, Jay will only abandon him and then he, Dalton, will need to drag himself into action twice as fast to catch up. As Dalton moves, one of his boots falls off the bedcovers to the floor; today's implement of choice, it seems, for throwing at his sleeping form to startle him into action.

Dalton does his level best to ignore Jay as he finds his clothes, more out of expedience and practicality than any actual lingering sense of personal space or privacy, or of his own right to it, as he changes clothes or otherwise. In turn, Jay, thankfully, seems content not to interrupt him now that Dalton is recognisably doing what Jay wants.

But – a boot.

It's worrying, although possibly not for the reasons most people would find being woken up by having a combat boot thrown at them worrying. But Jay hadn't only woken him up, which is increasingly par for the course in Dalton's life, he had woken Dalton up with something considerably heavier than is usual (and Dalton regularly regrets that he has a "usual" style of object thrown at him in the mornings, because even once or twice a week is too many rude awakenings).

Jay, it seems, is in more of a hurry than usual, or more of a temper. Possibly both, because one leads to the other for Jay. That does not bode well for Dalton's calm, let alone his well-being, because Jay in a temper (of any sort, really) leads to a whole variety of trouble (and Jay rarely seems to care about that as much as Dalton does, although that could be an act like so much else of Jay's behaviour).

Dalton, having managed to locate and don his clothes, scans the floor. And then he catches the boots Jay tosses at him, one of them for the second time that day.

Jay's only grumbled comment is 'You're so slow.' Dalton thinks that he should, maybe, be glad that's all that Jay chooses to contribute.

Jay complains with disturbing regularity, often loud and often long, and Dalton has no choice but to stay put and listen – or, rather, to stay put and be _subjected_ to Jay's irritable (and irritating) criticisms. It isn't quite as bad as that description makes it sound, though, Dalton finds; not nearly all of Jay's grumblings are actually aimed at Dalton, and he finds himself in unexpected agreement with a surprising number of them. Added to which complications, the tone (and so the meaning) of the complaints can fall anywhere from deep irony, through sarcasm and mock-irritation, past idle commentary, and right the way up to genuine outrage. The trick, at which Dalton still sometimes stumbles, is to distinguish all these.

But the captain feels safe in his decision to dismiss this latest example (absently insulting to mask genuine worry, or possibly irritation; two emotions Jay has linked sufficiently intrinsically to continually confuse Dalton). It had been made in wilful ignorance of what Dalton feels to have been more than usual speed, and also of the fact that Jay had hardly let any time pass before intervening with his complaint.

'Who is it you want to see?' Dalton asks as he pulls his boots on, careful for form's sake to avoid any suggestion that they would indeed be going to see whoever-it-is purely because Jay wants to see them, and without any input or decision-making required on Dalton's part.

Jay snaps his fingers in front of Dalton's face, and then replaces them with a cup of blessedly strong coffee, and the smell alone is very nearly enough to make Dalton consider forgiving Jay for the boot. 'The late 'gate team,' Jay says. 'SGA-9. Now drink.'

Dalton drinks, the liquid almost scalding his tongue. 'How are you expecting to see them?' he asks, when he has swallowed.

'They're back,' Jay says, rolling his eyes, and Dalton can hear the _of course, you idiot_, tagged on to the end. He pushes Dalton towards the table, and the tray of food on it. 'Eat. And hurry up.'

Dalton gulps at his coffee again, taking the opportunity to think through the situation. Jay has clearly been not only awake before Dalton, but has been to the mess hall to get food, and has then taken the time to _come back_ to get Dalton. And obeying the rules of his parole, even belatedly, suggests some sort of ulterior motive on Jay's part (unless Dalton is being unfair here, but it's always better to expect and prepare for the worst, to be on the safe side).

'When did they get back?' Dalton asks, stalling. Then he adds: 'And what's this?' He points at something on the breakfast tray. It looks like some sort of pinkish fruit, but he isn't going to take anything for granted (because firstly, aliens and another galaxy, and secondly, Jay, and if either factor by itself can make Dalton have caution towards unfamiliar food, then both together certainly will).

'This morning,' Jay says, in what Dalton thinks is further wilful ignorance, this time in regards to the fact that the morning shouldn't have really started yet. 'Ages ago,' he adds. And then: 'Good question, but it's tasty. And nutritious, whatever.' He waves a hand at the last detail, as if he doesn't care about such details (he likely doesn't; Dalton's seen him eat all manner of ridiculously cholesterol-filled, innutritious food, and be none the worse for it at all).

Dalton decides to take his word for it.

More pressing than exactly what alien foods his meal consists of is the problem of how Dalton is going to advance the conversation. He wouldn't bother, but for the fact that if he _doesn't_, then Jay will. And it's still too early in the morning, despite the coffee, to suffer too much more of Jay's temper (or his sense of humour, which is sometimes just as bad). So discussion will be needed – and his duty as Jay's parole officer is, admittedly, occasionally a convenient excuse to satisfy his curiosity.

He doesn't really want to bring up Jay's early-morning, unauthorised trip to find breakfast, in case the reminder of its success gives him ideas about wandering off without his parole officer. But then Jay doesn't really need to be given those ideas; he gets them all by himself. Regularly, to Dalton's professional distress (but – aside from the fact that he gets dragged into every mess Jay finds, or creates, as a result – it isn't to Dalton's _personal_ distress; this, of course, disturbs his professionalism still further). So, with only the faintest of misgivings, Dalton raises the subject.

'How did you find out?' he asks. And then clarifies: 'Getting gossip free with breakfast?'

'Sure,' Jay agrees. 'And now we're going to act on the gossip.' He picks up Dalton's coffee and steals a couple of swallows. 'Are you _ready_ yet?' he asks, exasperated, and Dalton decides that it's in his own best interests to fall into line with Jay's interests, now.

He lets himself be shooed out of the door to Jay's continuing bad-tempered, occasionally hypocritical mutters that if only Dalton had been awake earlier, then they could have been _there_ already, and is it really too much to ask? Because it is after all _Jay_ who has to be followed around every waking minute of the day – not to mention the night, which can get to be a real invasion of privacy – and so really it's Jay whose life is being turned upside down and Dalton should be more considerate about these things. And also shouldn't sleep in when he knew better.

Dalton feels he should interrupt at this point, in some vain attempt to defend himself. 'Was there some way I was supposed to know that the,' he says, pauses, and then tries on for size the newly-learnt phrase ''gate team had arrived? It did happen in the middle of the night.'

'You knew I wanted to see them,' Jay says.

Dalton doesn't argue the statement; he had known, whether Jay had actually said as much or not. He doesn't comment further, because if Jay hasn't accepted any of his logic so far, he won't accept any of the rest of it, either. He doesn't even sigh, wearily or otherwise, regardless of how _this-is-too-early-to-be-thinking_ he feels, because Jay in this mood will only take it as – as what? Weakness, perhaps, or something like – and then continue in the same strain. Which Dalton doesn't want.

He just keeps steadily walking, matching his steps to Jay's, following his charge through the corridors of Atlantis (every time that name is mentioned, a small excited voice in the back of his mind is saying: _Atlantis! __**The**__ Atlantis! Alien! In another galaxy!_). The key is to remain calm, and not give in. And not talk down to him, or give him too many senselessly stupid orders, or underestimate him, or tell him the obvious that he already knows – unless he has decided he needs convincing, or that he needs to put on an act of some sort, or some other irritatingly twisty reason Dalton too often fails to understand but can at least usually catch the cues for. Sometimes.

But when in doubt, stoic silence is rarely a bad option. If nothing else, a careful silence stops him from saying anything too foolish when he feels out of his depth, and stops him judiciously interfering in Jay's convoluted schemes (Jay would say, at this point, that those two categories overlap amazingly often, and that Dalton isn't here to interfere, he's here to make sure Jay doesn't go crazy; Dalton usually manages not to ask how anyone could possibly tell). Non-interference probably isn't the policy of most parole officers in regards to their charges, or so Dalton assumes, but then most parole officers don't have this particular charge. And all the difficulties that come with him.

Captain Greg Dalton rolls his eyes, a brief glance to the heavens that Jay cannot see, and thinks: _and no one ever warned me about any of it_.

* * *

Carter had been more than slightly groggy when she had been woken up in the early hours of the morning by the returning 'gate team, and had spent much of the time since cursing the inevitable time differences that waylaid 'gate teams until they left for home in the sensible midmorning, and arrived on Atlantis in the middle of the night, or some other absurdly irritating time (another small part of Carter's mind had been occupied wondering: _surely it wasn't this bad when we went offworld?_). Of course, untimely arrivals are the course of things when teams are coming in under fire, but SGA-9 had managed it with no more than a commendable disinclination to insult their hosts while in the midst of formalities (not that Carter is dissatisfied; diplomacy is always, always preferable to the alternative, and for all that she complains about odd hours, she is thankful she has the freedom, the chance to complain about lost sleep when it could realistically be so much worse).

But now, nearly two hours later, fortified by strong coffee, breakfast, and the mere fact of having been awake for two hours, Carter is relatively revived, her mind finally seeming to be firing on all cylinders. She hadn't really needed to be personally present at SGA-9's return; they know well enough by now the procedures that follow, don't need to be reminded to turn over their weapons or visit the infirmary. But she'll need to be properly awake for the debriefing, which has been decreed to start in a little under half an hour.

And, alright, it had been Carter who had determined that, and if she'd truly wished she could have scheduled it later, closer to a time when people naturally woke up. But she hadn't (because a good commander doesn't shirk, doesn't put themself above their people, always watches them leave, always welcomes them back home).

So, with a new cup of coffee in one hand and her laptop under her other arm, Carter is walking slowly down the corridors of Atlantis, sipping the coffee with every other step. It says good things for her renewed, alert wakefulness, Carter thinks, that she not only hears the footsteps approaching behind her well before they actually reach her, but that she is alert enough to simply lean against the wall and wait for Major Starc – not to mention his three teammates trailing behind him, Henriques still eating as he walked – to catch up to her.

'Colonel Carter,' Starc says in abbreviated greeting, slowing his steps as he falls alongside her.

'Major,' Carter replies, stepping away from the wall to continue walking down the corridor, this time with Starc beside her matching his steps to hers and his team behind them both. 'What can I do for you?'

Starc shrugs easily. 'Actually, we just figured we may as well follow along with you to the debriefing.' He pauses, and adds in a stage whisper that carries clearly to his team, 'Ryder was getting twitchy, sitting eating when he could be talking about diplomacy.' Starc grins. 'He gets crazy about the weirdest things.'

'Thanks, sir,' is the answering wry grumble from the beleaguered Ryder.

'Don't mention it,' Starc says, directing the words over his shoulder. 'So,' he continues to Carter, 'you don't have to do anything but grace us with your presence.'

Starc's attitude is probably, technically, overfamiliarity bordering on insubordination. But Carter has no objections to his brand of casual conversation-making. She appreciates it, really. Starc has either picked up on this sentiment, or would simply speak with this degree of friendly companionship regardless of Carter's attitude (Carter suspects it is mostly the latter, even if she facilitates the practice).

'Of course,' she says, and adds, 'with pleasure.'

The response gets her another amiable grin, and Starc saying 'And Ryder promises he won't start in on the diplo-babble until we're all sitting down and prepared for it. Don't you, Ryder?'

'Yes,' Ryder replies. 'Even without you prompting me, sir.'

'Really?' is the answering chorus from Henriques and Cowan, managing to pack astonishing volumes of disbelief into one word.

Ryder makes a disgusted noise, shortly followed by Starc – either pre-empting escalation or just for the sake of it – airily ordering 'Play nice for the colonel, children.'

Carter hides her reflexive smile at this (and, while she's at the business of moderating her expression, catches herself before she raises an eyebrow, as well), but the rest of SGA-9 are less restrained. Henriques' assent is mumbled through a mouthful of whatever-it-is-he's eating, and sounds decidedly sarcastic. Ryder barely bothers to respond, murmuring something indistinct Carter can't make out.

Cowan says 'Only if you promise the same, sir.'

The easy back-and-forth is oddly calming, and – additionally soothingly – doesn't seem to require Carter's input. This latter factor becomes suddenly important when the small group turns the corner, because it means that SGA-9 isn't immediately alerted to her distraction when Carter spots the pair standing by the wall just ahead. They've plainly been waiting for her to arrive, but how either O'Neill or Captain Dalton knew she _would_ arrive here is another question, and, irritatingly, one she can't answer.

After a moment, Carter's distraction from SGA-9's banter is irrelevant, because they've fallen into a mutual silence. When she glances across at Starc, it's to see his gaze focused precisely where Carter's had been concentrated: the figures of Dalton and O'Neill, made more than usually conspicuous by their presence when most of Atlantis is still asleep, neither of whom any of SGA-9's members will have seen before (or so Carter assumes, although she probably can't rule it out; just because she can't think of where or why they might have met, doesn't mean it hasn't happened).

A few moments of silence more, and Starc says 'The _Daedalus_ was scheduled an appearance, right?' Nodding towards Jay and Dalton, who still haven't moved although they have clearly spotted the approaching SGA-9 and Carter, Starc adds, 'New recruits?'

Carter, to what she feels should be her credit, doesn't hesitate before saying 'Yes.' But she doesn't elaborate.

It shouldn't _need_ elaboration, of course—new recruits are new recruits, there isn't much more to be said—but SGA-9 are to a man displaying the intuition that comes from long association with the myriad strangeness of the Department of Homeworld Security, and don't look entirely satisfied with the simple answer.

'Is there a reason, uh,' Cowan begins, and ends the question with a vague hand-wave, apparently unable to properly verbalise his concerns.

Carter has never really been able to shake the irregularly-recurring feeling that pseudo-telepathy is perhaps a negative indicator of mental stability (legitimate telepathy is, of course, usually another matter entirely). The fact that she does, in fact, understand what Cowan is trying to communicate is therefore received with some slight dismay at this proof that her own long association with strangeness is sufficient for her to interpret vague hand-waves, and occasionally, depending on context and owner of the hand doing the waving, to transcribe their meaning into several paragraphs' worth of explication.

But completely apart from her knowing what Cowan means, Carter can't actually answer his question (not really, anyway, even if she can guess at some of the obvious "waiting-for-us-to-turn-up" parts). But in the event, she doesn't have to answer, because by this point she has drawn almost level with Jay and Dalton, and certainly close enough for the latter pair to have heard Cowan's question (or at least to have inferred it).

Jay therefore takes it upon himself to answer. He says 'You mean, is there a reason why we're loitering suspiciously in corridors?'

'Isn't there?' Carter says (because she knows how this goes, and someone needs to ask).

'Sure. We're lurking in ambush to make sure you've had breakfast,' Jays says, with a straight face. He adds, 'Have you?'

'Yes,' Carter replies, as blandly and non-committedly as possible, and lifts the coffee cup.

'Good to know,' Jay says.

Despite their own tendencies towards frivolous banter, SGA-9 looks somewhat taken aback when Carter checks their initial responses. They _also_ look on their way to recovering well, however, so Carter doesn't have anything to worry about there (the men _are_ an SG-team, after all, she thinks, with some pride). Dalton just looks faintly long-suffering, and Jay has entertained amusement hiding in his eyes.

For herself, Carter isn't entirely sure how she might further contribute to events, and so takes a gulp of her cooling coffee. Any progress towards debriefing has ceased, now, and devolved into a lopsided clump of people blocking the corridor. But the coffee seems to have done its job, and Carter comes to the decision that her contribution can be the necessary introductions, given that there will more than likely be no movement whatsoever until the bottom of this matter (whatever that might be) has been reached. Once she has decided on her next course of action, her first instincts are acted upon before she can control it.

Aiming her words at O'Neill, she says 'This is SGA-9, back from M7X-983,' gesturing to the team standing beside her.

A bare moment later, before Carter draws breath to continue, Starc takes over to introduce himself and his team in less general terms, by name and rank. It is partway through this process that Carter realises just how formal etiquette dictates introductions should properly proceed: those parties of lower status or rank are introduced _to _those of higher status; and she had automatically introduced SGA-9 to O'Neill, not vice versa as everyone else present had probably been expecting.

She manages to dismiss this with an internal _oops_, just as Starc ends with 'And you are…?'

'Jay,' Jay says. 'And this is Captain Greg Dalton.'

And, Carter thinks, _that_ introduction had been considerably worse than her own attempt, if "worse" is the right term to use. No one would miss the fact that Dalton had been introduced by full name and rank, while Jay had allocated himself a single syllable. Nor would it be missed that Jay had introduced Dalton—incidentally, Dalton is, Carter notices, standing as calmly as if Jay treats the captain as his subordinate all the time (which, it must be admitted, probably does happen all the time).

Cowan frowns, and hazards 'Jay…who?' He doesn't quite wait for an answer before saying 'Or…just "Jay"?'

'Yeah,' Jay says. 'The second one.'

He seems not at all inclined to elaborate, and apparently feeling some response is required, Cowan says, 'Ah.'

There is a slight awkward silence, wherein Carter feels that someone else can pick up the slack in the conversation—they're grown men, they should all be capable—and finishes her merely-lukewarm, increasingly unappetising coffee. SGA-9 don't look as though they're about to essay any such attempt at continuing discussion, however, despite their clear natural curiosity regarding the pair before them (their curiosity is probably helped along by the way in which Jay, on occasion, can look _so young_, and tailor his apparent personality to match). Dalton looks largely content to keep right on pretending to be invisible. All of which, of course, leaves one person to break the silence, which he rarely has a problem with managing when he is determined to find something out.

'So,' Jay says, 'are you getting debriefed now?'

'Heading to the debriefing,' Cowan agrees, sounding as faintly bemused as he still looks, and glancing to Starc as if for backup, or possibly moral support.

Whatever his concerns, however, Jay doesn't reply with anything disconcerting. He doesn't, in fact, reply at all, or make any response to Cowan's confirmation of his guess beyond a simple, acknowledging nod. But it isn't a verbal reply from Jay that Carter anticipates; it is whatever is going on in Jay's head that she is watching for, and trying to guess at (and she is anticipating it, she must admit, with a tremor of trepidation). She thinks she can guess at what is on Jay's mind almost perfectly, in this precise instance.

And whether Dalton knows all the complicated backstory behind the matter or not, his calculating, faintly anxious expression as he warily eyes Jay seems to communicate that he, too, realises well enough that Jay wants very strongly to know what will happen in the debriefing to come. Fortunately, the corollary to that piece of knowledge would appear to be that Dalton also knows that for his charge to sit in on the debriefing – as Jay no doubt subconsciously (or possibly also very consciously) has the urge to do – is entirely out of the question (no matter whom he had been in a past life, or whoever he still is, Carter thinks ruefully). The captain wouldn't look quite so troubled if he wasn't speed-planning a course of action to corral Jay, and curb his demands (because knowing O'Neill they are demands, Carter is sure, whatever the dynamic between a parole officer and his charge is supposed to be).

'No,' Captain Dalton says sharply to Jay, before anyone has gathered enough psychological momentum to try contributing to the discussion (that discussion is now so stilted, Carter thinks, that it may as well be merely a collection of sentences).

Given that Jay hasn't in fact said yet anything seeming to warrant that command, it sounds thoroughly out of the blue to everyone but herself and Dalton (and perhaps Caldwell, had he still been here). Everyone is, therefore, alternating between looking quizzically at Dalton and looking quizzically at Jay.

Jay contrives to look hurt, widening his eyes in pretence of innocence at an unjust accusation. It is interesting, Carter notes, to see that judging by body language SGA-9, not yet exposed to the rumour mill's latest products, seem to at least half-believe the act. The act, however, is rapidly abandoned in favour of a grimace in Dalton's direction (and Carter can almost _feel_ SGA-9 re-evaluating their impressions still further).

Before Jay can say anything to go with the grimace and build up momentum, though, Dalton repeats, with more emphasis, '_No_, Jay.'

Their audience still has little idea of what is being debated; Carter isn't about to enlighten them, because an explanation could only get more complicated – more complicated than she wants, and more complicated than the current confusion warrants.

Jay stares at Dalton, a hint of exasperation edging into his expression. 'You never let me do anything interesting,' he says after a moment, sounding far more petulant than Carter thinks is good for anyone.

'Untrue,' Dalton says blandly, unaffected by either the petulance or the innocence that went before it. 'You do plenty of interesting things.'

There is, Carter thinks, something carefully left out of that statement.

Jay picks up on it, and grumbles, 'That doesn't mean you _let_ me do stuff.' Thankfully for Carter's peace of mind, he sounds less sulky this time.

Major Starc lets out a noise that sounds suspiciously close to a snort of laughter, hastily muffled. Dalton and Jay both ignore him – Dalton through politeness, probably, but more because they are, both of them, focused on the other's words.

Dalton surveys Jay coolly, and then says 'Right,' and motions back down the corridor. 'And I'm not letting you do this, either.'

Jay narrows his eyes. Carter diagnoses him as trying not to show too much of how badly he hates to be told what to do, loathes to be refused permission for anything but even more so for something that had once been his right (and then she wonders, briefly, quietly, not wanting to jinx anything, why he is bothering to mask it).

Carter doesn't add anything to the battle of wills, such as it is, with nearly all of the fighting occurring beneath the surface, iceberg-like. This is Dalton's battle, after all, if only one of the many similar he must face regularly, and she wants to see how he fights it (and her reticence is not, she berates her rebellious hindbrain, _not_ because she remembers being snapped at for being patronising and is suddenly, warily unsure how well she knows this new O'Neill – and so also, by unwilling logical extension, the General).

'Fine,' Jay snaps suddenly, angrily, breaking the silence that had been stretching, tensely, without anyone quite daring to interrupt.

There is the briefest of pauses as everyone takes in his capitulation.

And then, sounding thoroughly cheerful (and SGA-9, Carter thinks, look to have contracted a case of minor mental and/or emotional whiplash, while still being bemused as to the topic of discussion), Jay says 'I'll have to find something else to do, then.' He grins, and makes for the door. 'Seeya, Carter, SGA-9. Come on, Dalton.'

Dalton, to his credit, doesn't look _too_ strained at the peremptory order, or at what Carter sees as the all too real prospect of multiple repetitions of this exact argument. He nods politely at Carter and SGA-9, and follows Jay.

They're both gone before Carter can catch her mental breath, leaving her and the four men remaining in the corridor to continue making their way to the debriefing—this time in silence. SGA-9 are, she suspects, mulling over that encounter, and had mutually decided to wait until their commanding officer was out of earshot before discussing it amongst themselves. Carter is in no way unhappy with the silence, comforting as their talk had been earlier, and vaguely unnerving as are the thoughts of what disruption Jay will be causing in the near future.

But Carter has other matters to thinks about. And despite the blatantly obvious fact that not all of those matters involve O'Neill, it is O'Neill upon whom she finds her thoughts lingering (it is not an unusual feeling, this one).

And foremost among her Jay-related worries is this: Captain Dalton had won the argument. He'd won it easily, actually, which makes Carter suspect that Jay had given in deliberately easily. But that thought leads to the thought that Jay had known he would never win that argument (because, of course, he isn't _stupid_); and _that_ suggests that he had started the argument purely to make trouble, without really caring about its resolution. Although – he hadn't started it. Dalton had. Admittedly it had been obvious enough to Carter that Jay had wanted in on the debriefing, but it hadn't been him who had brought it up.

So what, Carter thinks, does that mean? If anything at all?

Had Jay not mentioned it because Dalton had spoken first? Or because he had known how any such request, even one framed as a demand, would inevitably be answered? Jay isn't General O'Neill, at least not in the eyes of the chain of command (Carter carefully doesn't contemplate the tangles of what he is in her eyes); he doesn't have the latitude given by rank, can't act on his whims without good reason. Can't sit in on a debriefing just because he wants to. Which brings up the question: had he wanted to, because he couldn't? Carter frowns, and ignores that question.

Dalton had made sure Jay wouldn't insinuate himself into the debriefing; but his refusal before the subject had even been broached had, in some twisty way, saved Jay face. Not that Carter thought O'Neill would appreciate that, or ever acknowledge it if he did.

And Dalton had also picked up on Carter's hesitation, however minute it had been (still is, she admits), to enforce that automatic rule of keeping Jay away from information he technically has no right to hear. He had refused before Jay had mentioned it, and before Carter had mentioned it; had helped her, too. Of course that means that _Jay_ will have picked up on her hesitation too, but there's no helping that. And there's no time to think deeply on it, either. She has a debriefing to get to.

**-end part thirteen-**


End file.
